


I Never Planned on You

by haggarrrd



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Age Difference, Hostage Situations, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haggarrrd/pseuds/haggarrrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen year old Grantaire is kidnapped from Paris and is taken to an Australian wasteland by a beautiful and dangerous stranger named Enjolras.</p><p>The story takes the form of a letter written by Grantaire to Enjolras about his time in captivity, where the lines between love and obsession are destroyed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was beautiful the day we met; the sun was beating down on Paris, and we were in the middle of a particularly brilliant heat wave that brought people out of their houses onto the streets so that they could cherish the feel of the sun rays on their skin. I used to love the sun before I met you, but now it just makes me feel uncomfortable and sick.

I’d been fighting with my parents all morning, but there was nothing out of the ordinary there, we argued about everything, and then everything would be okay again after a few hours when we'd all had space from each other. I tried to escape by hiding away along the riverbanks of the Seine, with plans to meet Jehan there, but instead I found you, and at first I was sure that you were a product of the heat on my too tired mind. You were so beautiful that it didn’t seem right that you were real.

I sat on the wall, my feet dangling over the edge above the water, and closed my eyes as I let the sun bask on my face. Is that when you spotted me, or had you been following me for longer than that? I don’t know how long you were there before I noticed, but when I opened my eyes you were sat next to me on the wall, your dark brown eyes focused on studying my face, rather than watching the water. You had that look in your eyes that said you wanted something, and that you were close to getting it too. It unsettled me. I was so startled I almost got up and walked away from you right then. Part of me wishes that I had.

But then you smiled at me, and your whole face lit up in the most beautiful way that I just had to stay. Your blond hair was loose then, hanging around your shoulders in thick golden curls that made me wonder how you could stand to have them on your neck in such a strong heat. My own curls, dark and ratty in comparison, were tucked away in a hair tie on the back on my head, so that they couldn’t irritate me.

“Hello,” you said, as if talking to strangers was the most natural thing to do. You shuffled closer, and it was then that I noticed that you looked older than me. Not old, but at least twenty. I wanted to shuffle the other way, away from you, because I couldn’t understand why you would want to talk to me, when I knew for a fact that I only looked fifteen.

“Hi,” I replied, looking over your shoulder to see if Jehan was approaching. Beautiful as you were, my instincts were still unsure of how I should react in the current situation. I wasn't stupid; my parents had spent years drilling the importance of stranger danger into my head. But that didn't seem relevant when it came to you; back then, the only strangers I thought I had to be weary of were old men driving vans with tinted windows, not beautiful men who had smiles that were almost brighter than the sun in the sky.

If you noticed that I was searching the horizon for my friend, you didn’t mention it. Instead, you said, “my name’s Enjolras.”

“Grantaire,” I offered in return before even thinking about it. I didn’t know then that you already knew my name, had known it for a long time. It’s funny but after that I didn’t actually mind talking to you; my mind was still back home, thinking about my parents and the argument that we had just had. Mum wanted me to go back to college to finish my second year, Dad was tired from working all night and just wanted me to agree so that he could go to bed and rest. Talking to you was a welcome diversion.

I can’t help but wonder now if you planned it so that it would happen that way. Wait until I was mad at my parents before you approached. But I didn’t think about that then, how could I? I didn’t know what you had planned. And you had planned it for so long, I suppose.

“Enjoying the weather?” You asked, a look on your face that made it seem like it was the most sincere question you could have been asking me.

I shrugged. I loved the sun and everything about it. “I wish it could stay like this forever.” You laughed, and I frowned at you. “What, don’t you like the heat?”

“No, I do.” Another grin from you, and it looked almost shy. You cast your eyes out across the Seine, then turned back to me and said, “Do you want a coke or something?”

You tilted your head towards the ice cream van that was parked on the other side of the bridge, a little way into the distance. I nodded, seeing no reason to reject the offer, then watched you as you hopped up off of the wall and over to the van. You were wearing black shorts that were tight to your legs, cut off at the knee, and a white t-shirt that showed off your arms. I felt embarrassed about staring at you and analysing your body, so I turned my eyes towards the water instead and watched the water dance in the sunlight. Maybe that’s when you did it. Where you smiling when you did it? You must have been quick, tipping whatever it was in before someone could notice that you were going to drug a teenager, or was nobody looking in the first place? I’ve thought about it a lot since then, wondering what it was. I suppose it must have been some sort of powder, perhaps it looked like sugar. It must have tasted like sugar to blend in so well with the sweet drink.

When you came back and handed me the drink, cupping the other between your hands, I took the chance to really look at your face for the first time. You were beautiful, in an unbelievable sort of way. As if Michelangelo had carved you out of marble and you had come to life by some sort of magic. Your eyes darted down to the drink in my hands, then back up to my eyes nervously, so I took a sip and smiled at you. Without the smile, you looked older than I had originally thought. More like twenty five or twenty six, rather than twenty as I had originally presumed.

“How old are you?” I blurted out before I could really stop myself.

“How old do you think I am?” You smirked, that nervous look gone from your face all together. I pursed my lips and shrugged. I really had no idea. Now that you were smiling again, you looked younger. You laughed and said, “I’m twenty six. How old are you?”

“Seventeen.” You nodded as though you already knew. Of course, you already did.

“What do you do then, are you still in school?” You asked, your eyes twinkling in a way that made me want to tell you everything about myself.

“I dropped out at the end of last term,” I explained, suddenly feeling incredibly self conscious of my choice. I carried on swigging from the can you had placed in my hands. “Mum wants me to go back but I doubt that I will. I wasn’t really getting anything from it, y’know?”

You nodded as if you did, but I worried that you were really judging me for my choice. Foolish really, because I suppose you already knew all about that as well. But then you smiled again, and asked, “what do your parents do?”

“Dad works for the government. I don’t really know the specifics, it’s never really interested me that much.” Your face twisted a little in distaste, but it was almost unnoticeable and the smile was back in place before I could think too much about it. “He travels a lot, sometimes we go with him, but most of the time he’s just not around. Mum’s a nurse, so I guess she’s not really around that much either. She works long hours and a lot of nights, but she likes it so I guess that’s all that’s important.”

“Is that what you want to do, be like your parents?”

“No. I’m not smart enough to be a nurse and I don’t care for politics.” I couldn’t figure out why, but my answer seemed to please you. “I guess I’d like to travel. Go to America, England, places like that. I can’t speak any English though so I guess I’d better learn if I want to travel.”

“What about Australia, would you like to go there?” Your face changed, taking on a more serious tone, as if my answer really mattered. I wondered if you had family there or if you’d been there before and loved it. Of course now I know differently.

I laughed and said, “sure, who doesn't?”

Things changed then. I slowed down, while the river beneath me seemed to speed up, and I began to fear that if I fell into it, I’d be gone so fast that no one would even notice. It’s crazy, what a tiny bit of powder in a coke can can do.

You watched me carefully, your eyes critical and wide. “Are you okay?”

I opened my mouth to tell you that I was fine, but I couldn’t make sense of anything that came out of my mouth. My tongue felt too thick and heavy to properly form words, and I assumed that it was the heat that was making me feel fatigued. Your hand grabbed mine tightly, and you pulled me off of the wall, then wrapped an arm around my waist to help me walk in a straight line. I had to crane my neck to look up at you, you were so much taller than me. The top of my head barely met your shoulder. 

You made me walk fast, practically marched me through the park, and I wondered if you were taking me to find Jehan. Stupid, of course, because I hadn’t even mentioned Jehan or that I was supposed to be meeting him. It felt like such a long distance, longer than any other walk through the park had ever taken me. You shoved me into the back of your car when we were finally out of the park, then climbed in next to me and started saying something but I couldn’t tell what. I reached out to try and grab you, and you linked your fingers within my own.

You said something else to me then, and I still don’t know what, but you held some clothes out to me and I understood. I started to get undressed and changed into the clothes you had placed next to me, and you did the same, changing out of the white t-shirt into a red vest top that showed off your shoulders. You put something scratchy on my head, and concealed my eyes behind dark sunglasses.

And then you were gone, climbing out of the back of the car and into the front. I couldn’t see the streets as we drove by, the houses and trees all blurring into one so I shut my eyes and started to think. Cars were rushing past us, but none of them knew what was going on in your beat up old station wagon. You must of thought of everything. A ticket, a new passport, the route through Paris that would get us there on time, even how to get past security. Was it the most carefully thought out plan ever, or was it just luck? What would you have done if I hadn’t taken the drink you offered me? It can’t have been easy to plan, or to put into action. It can’t have been easy to get me through the airport and onto a plane without anyone even noticing, not even me.

I don’t remember what happened next, until we were on the ground again and you were tugging me through a car park. As I started to return to my senses, the drugs wearing off, I started to fight against you. I tried to scream and shout, but you pulled me behind an eighteen wheeler and put a cloth over my mouth, and a harsh chemical smell invaded my nose, making me feel sick and lightheaded. The world went fuzzy again and I let myself fall back onto you. All I remember after that is the feeling of lying down in a car without a seatbelt on.

More than anything, I remember waking up in a bed. I felt hot, too hot to still be in Paris, even in the heat wave. The heat grabbed my throat and tried to steal my oxygen. It made me wish I had never even woken up.


	2. Chapter 2

At least you hadn’t tied me to the bed. But even unbound, I couldn’t move. Any movement stirred up a sickness in me that made bile rise in my throat. I felt dizzy, as if the world were spinning around me. I was covered with a thin sheet, but even that felt like it was too much, so I fought off the dizzy spell and kicked it off of myself, immediately regretting it after.

My throat was thick and dry, slicked only by the small amount of bile that was the result of my decision to kick off the sheet. I swallowed it back down and looked around the room. Everything was beige, and the floor was made up of pieces of wood, as if it were waiting to be covered with cement and topped with carpet. I closed my eyes again, unsure of where I was. I mentally checked down my body; no missing limbs, all of my fingers and toes were still there and working. I felt down my stomach; I was naked, except for a pair of boxer that felt too short to be the ones I usually wore. Panic swam through me, and I began to run my hand over the boxers, feeling for I don’t know what. Blood, pain, torn flesh. You’d clearly taken the ones I was wearing off to replace them, had you done something to me?

“I haven’t raped you.” You said, as if you were reading my mind.

I gripped the mattress and snapped my eyes open. You were stood at the end of the bed, but I couldn’t see you properly; you were blurred around the edges, as if you were an apparition. I tried to push myself up so that I could get away from you a little, but my arms were practically useless as I attempted to get them to work.

“I didn’t want you to overheat.” You explained and I flinched at the sound of your voice. “Your clothes are next to the bed on the floor.”

I looked. On the floor there was a brand new pair of dark blue shorts, neatly folded and placed on top of a towel, presumably so that they wouldn’t be dirtied by the floor. A vest top, much like the one you had changed into but in a deep green colour, was folded neatly on top of it with a pair of shoes side by side next to the pile. None of the things were mine.

As my vision came into focus, I could see you taking steps towards me and I tried to curl up, but everything was heavy and slow. I didn’t know where I was, but I knew that it was a bad place. How I’d gotten there and what you’d done to me remained a mystery to me. You could have done anything to me and I still don’t think I’d know. Fear shot through me, but I didn’t say anything. My breathing kept speeding up, but I forced my eyes to look up. I met your eyes and my breath faltered for the shortest moment. You didn’t look like a kidnapper. I wanted you to be someone else, someone who looked like they were capable to drugging a teenager on a bridge and dragging them out to a strange location. I didn’t want you to be the stranger who I had found so beautiful as we sat by the Seine.

But you were there, your dark eyes analytical and your golden hair cascading around your face in perfect ringlets. You didn’t look beautiful to me anymore. Just evil. Your face was blank. Your mouth looked pinched and thin. You were waiting for me to speak, ask you questions, but I didn’t. I just remained silent and watched you.

“I brought you here.” You said, gesturing to the room around you but not specifying where ‘here’ was. “You probably still feel sick because of the drugs. Dizziness is normal.”

“Why would you do this?” I whispered.

When you answered, your voice was so sincere and genuine that it my chest ache. “Because I had to.”

My chest was tight and I worried that I might cry, but I didn’t want to cry in front of you. “Where am I?”

You didn’t say anything for what felt like a very long time. You just took a deep breath, and then let it back out in the form of a sigh. Everything else was silent, until you spoke again. “You’re safe.”

I fell asleep again after that, the drugs still working their magic in my system. I don’t know how long I slept for; the whole thing is really hazy when it gets to this point, almost as if it could have been nothing more than a nightmare. I lay there when I woke up, listening. My ears tried to pick up something. Anything. But there was nothing, just silence. There was no sound of other people, so I figured that I couldn’t be in a hotel or busy town, and there were no traffic noises around. Where had you taken me?

Carefully, I tested my body. My limbs cooperated more, and I didn’t feel as sluggish or tired as I had done the first time around. As quietly as possible, I pushed myself up and looked around the room. You weren’t there this time. There was nothing there but me, the bed, and a small chest of draws. I waited for a few more moments, then struggled and pushed myself up and out of the bed.

I got dressed quickly, forgoing the shoes and trying not to focus on the fact that I definitely wasn’t wearing my own underwear anymore. I took a step towards the door when I was fully dressed, trying to awaken my stiff limbs. It took me a while, but I made it to the door in the end and pressed down on the handle. It wasn’t locked, as I had supposed it would be.

Outside of the door was a long corridor, with five doors. I tried to be a quiet as I could as I stepped towards the first. I couldn’t hear anything from behind the other doors. I grabbed hold of the first door handle and pushed it open in one fluid movement. No sign of you, just a shower, a sink, and a toilet. Still no sign of you. I wanted to panic and scream.

The next door opened just as easily, revealing a room similar to the one I had woken up with. There was no movement within, and still no sound. I moved towards a door on the other side of the corridor, and opened it up to reveal blinding sunlight.

It was hot. Hotter than it had been inside, and even hotter than it had been in Paris. The air felt thick and wet, and I struggled to take a breath. For a moment, I considered going back into the house; escape seemed impossible; there was nothing around, and there was no way that I could survive alone in that kind of heat. But I had to try. I didn’t think there would be another opportunity for me to try to get away.

I started walking, the ground beneath me stinging and burning at my bare feet. I couldn’t see you, but of course you saw me. I heard the car start when I was little more than 100 metres away from the house. I started to run, slowly due to the drugs that you had filtered into my system. But you kept coming after me, your car faster than I ever would be. I could see you behind the wheel, turning it to try and catch me. I changed direction, but you stopped my attempts to run that way too. You were like a shark, circling me like prey.

You stopped the car and turned off the engine the same time that I fell to the ground in exhaustion. “It’s no use. You won’t find anything. There isn’t anything there.”

I started crying, terrified for myself and for what might happen to me in this desert. You got out of the car and came over to me, grabbing the back of my shirt and tugging. I turned my head and bit your hand so hard that I could taste the blood in my mouth. You swore, but at least it made you let go of me. I took the opportunity to get up and run, but you were on top of me before I could get anywhere, your chest against my back as you pressed me down into the sand.

“Stop it, Grantaire! Can’t you see there’s nowhere to go? You’re just hurting yourself.”

I struggled again but you were stronger than me and held me tightly against your chest as you pulled us both up. I screamed and carried on struggling, biting and spitting and kicking you anywhere that my feet could find purchase. It didn’t make you let go of me though, as I had hoped that it would, instead it made you drag me faster. I must have looked crazy as you dragged me back into the house, kicking and screaming like a wild animal.

You threw me into the bathroom and locked the door from the outside. I kicked it and threw all of my body weight against it, trying to break it down, but it was no good. There was no other way of escaping; no second door, no windows, just walls made of splintery wood. Frustrated, I turned to the cabinet above the sink and hurled everything contained in it against the door, as hard as I possibly could. Bottles smashed and liquid went everywhere, filling the room with sharp scents.

“Please stop,” you said through the door, your voice full of patience. “That’s all we have, you’ll waste everything.”

I didn’t care. I carried on screaming and banged at the door with my fists, turning them into a bloody mess, and leaving bruises all the way up to my elbows. I didn’t care about the pain either, I just needed to get out and away from you. As pieces of glass slotted into my feet, I realised that you could come in here at any moment with a knife or a gun and make me shut up. I bent down and snatched up one of the larger pieces of glass that had shattered near the wall.

“Just calm down,” you warned, your voice shaky and tired. “There’s no point, there’s nothing you can do.”

It made me feel sick. You were so close, just on the other side of the door. I could see your feet through the crack under the door. I sat back against the wall furthest away from you and yelled, “just leave me alone!”

“I can’t do that, Grantaire.”

The surety in your voice almost made me break down. “Please.”

“No.”

I started sobbing, hugging my knees tightly to my chest. I wanted to be back home, arguing with my parents and smoking cigarettes with Jehan, not locked in a bathroom with you just on the other side of the door. “What do you want from me?”

There was a thud on the bathroom door that made me jump, your hand or your head or maybe even a kick. But you sounded defeated when you called through the door again and said, “I won’t kill you. Ever. I won’t, okay?”

I didn’t believe you. Why would you have kidnapped me if it weren’t to kill me? Maybe you wanted ransom out of my parents. People always kidnapped politician’s kids to get big sums of money, or at least that’s what happened in movies and books. I never thought it would happen in real life. Being the son of a wealthy politician had never seemed like a danger before. You didn’t say anything then, and stayed silent for quite some time. I almost thought that you’d gone, but I could still see the shadow of your feet beneath the door. The shard of glass was still clasped tightly in my palm, cutting into the skin and causing small bubbles of blood to appear.

An idea crept into my head, and I held the glass above my wrist, wondering if I actually had the guts to do it. I pressed down hard, dragging the glass across my wrist. The blood started to seep out, running over the skin on my wrist. You said after that it was because there were still some drugs in my system that it made sense to try and do it, but I never believed you. I preferred to kill myself than wait for you to do it. I switched hands, taking the glass into my right hand and held it over my left wrist.

But then you came in and stopped me quickly. You must have been watching me through the keyhole. The door swung open and then the glass was in your hand rather than mine. You tried to pull me into your arms but I struck out and punched you in the eye. I hoped it was hard enough to bruise. But you grabbed me up anyway, wrapping your arms tightly around my shoulders and dragged me into the shower.

You turned the tap on, inviting a wave of ice cold water to wash over my body. I pushed myself backwards into the corner, trying to get out of the water and further away from you. Blood from my wrist mixed in with the water, tainting it a copper brown colour. You held a towel under the water until it was wet, then shut off the water and came towards me. I screamed again, hating the though of your hands touching me again, but it didn’t make you stop in your advance. You knelt down next to me, reaching out for my hand, and I recoiled, my head hitting hard on something behind me.

You grabbed me and pressed down on the cut, sending a jolt of pain through my arm.

After that, I don’t remember a thing.


	3. Chapter 3

When I finally woke up again, I was back in the plush double bed again. My wrist was wrapped tightly in a bandage, and my feet were tied to the bedposts with rope. My feet were wrapped in bandages too, and ached dully when I tried to move them.

I spotted you then, stood next to the window, dark brown eyes glancing out into the vast nothingness that lay on the other side of the glass. You were frowning, your face littered with bruises. I felt a little proud of myself then, because I had managed to hurt you a little. Standing there looking out of the window, you didn’t look like a kidnapper. You looked tired, and sad. But still, I hated you, even as I forced myself to watch you. Why had you brought me here? What did you want? Surely if you’d wanted to do something to me, you would have done it already. Or perhaps you were making me wait. That was a form of torture in itself. Perhaps my father was taking a while in getting the ransom money together, or maybe you hadn’t even asked for it yet. I wondered how much you wanted.

“Don’t do that again,” You said without even turning to look at me. I don’t know how you knew that I was staring at you. “You’ll hurt yourself if you try that again.”

I didn’t say anything, but you looked at me carefully, analysing me. I couldn’t meet your eyes; they were too intense, swimming with too many emotions. I lay back and looked at the ceiling, trying to keep myself calm. “Where am I?”

You sighed. I was thinking about the Seine, and how angry Jehan would have been when he turned up to find that I wasn’t there. He would have felt guilty about being angry later, when he found out that I was missing rather than just late. I wondered what my parents were feeling; argue as we might, they did love me. Were they worried? Did they feel bad about our argument? Did they think I had run away?

“It’s not Paris. You’ll find out eventually, I suppose.”

You sat down in a chair next to the bed, and let your forehead fall into your hands, your fingers probing and feeling at the bruises I had made on your skin. “Do you want some water, something to eat?”

I shook my head, only then realising that I was crying again. “What’s going to happen to me?”

You looked up at me, your eyes sad and wet, and I wondered if you might cry too. You got up and left the room, then returned a moment later with a glass of water and held it out to me. “I can promise you this, I won’t do anything bad to you.”

***

I stayed in bed for days. I cried a lot, which made me feel incredibly embarrassed. I didn’t want to cry in front of you. It was so hot, the sheets became thick with sweat, and everything stank. I tried not to move too much, tried not to make things worse for myself. At some point, you came in and checked the cuts on my feet, replaced the old bandages with new ones, but I pretended to be asleep for that.

It felt like I was there for weeks, but you told me later that it was only for three days. I spent the hours trying to think of ways to escape, but my brain was too hot to come up with anything of use. I drank the warm, murky water that you left beside my bed, but only when you weren’t watching, and after a while I began to snack on the seeds you left in a bowl, too hungry to resist them anymore. You tried to talk to me whenever you came into the room, but the conversation remained the same each time.

“Do you want to use the shower?”

“No.” I said, even though I knew that I should have one. I smelt so badly that I was beginning to disgust myself, but I hoped that it would repel you so much that you would let me go.

“Food?”

“No.” I was starving, but I wouldn’t let you know that.

“Water? You really need to keep hydrated in this heat.”

“No.”

You didn’t say anything then, just looked at me while you thought about what to say next. “Do you want to outside?”

“Only if you take me to a town.”

You’d sigh then, and say, “there are no towns. I told you.”

One time you didn’t leave the room as I had become used to you doing. Instead, you sighed again and went over to the window. The bruises on your face were healing. You looked over your shoulder at me, and then opened the curtains in one swift movement. Light flooded the room, invading every corner and making my eyes burn.

“Come on, lets just go out side.” You said, desperation tinting your voice. “We can look at the land. It’s really beautiful out here, and it’s different out back than to out front. We’ll go there.”

“Will you let me go if I go out back?”

You shook your head, “There’s nowhere for you to go. I told you that, it’s a wilderness. Even if I did let you go, there’d be nowhere for you to go, you’d die out there.”

I agreed in the end, but not because you wanted me to go outside, but because I knew that you had to be wrong when you said that there was nothing out there. We were out here, so there had to be other things too. There had to be a town in the distance, a road somewhere that I could follow back to civilisation. Nowhere is really a wilderness.

You smiled and untied my feet, then checked the wounds again, pleased to see that they were healing. You tried to lift me off of the bed, but I scratched at your hands and dug my nails in. Even that small action had my skin crawling. I got out of the bed on the other side, desperate to have something between us. “I can walk, you know.”

“Of course, I forgot.” You said, smiling slightly. “I haven’t chopped your legs off yet.”

You chuckled at your joke, then stopped when I ignored you. Standing up was hard, I hadn’t done it for days and my feet were all torn up. I made myself take a step, which sent a jolt of pain up my leg. I swallowed hard and gritted my teeth against the pain; if I ever wanted to get home, I’d have to get out of that room. I was desperately weak as I walked out of that room, the world spinning, ready to pass out at any moment. I realised I had been stupid to reject the food you offered me; I needed to be strong if I wanted to get out of here.

You led me though the living room, and out onto a porch where there was an old, dusty looking couch. I collapsed onto it, too exhausted to take another step, despite the fact that I hadn’t gotten out of the bed for three days. You looked down at me sadly, “you can’t go on like this. Let me get you something to eat. Please.”

I nodded, because if I were going to survive you, then I knew that I had to be smart about how things went. You smiled as if you had won some great battle, and walked back into the house, confident that I wasn’t in any shape to go anywhere, and I suppose you were right. I didn’t even try, although I had perfect opportunity to. Instead I looked out at the land. There were boulders scattered around a little way away, behind them trees grew, but not the kind of trees you’d see in Paris. They were thin and spiky and I couldn’t help but think that they were hideous.

My eyes searched for pathways around the boulders, anything that might help me get out of here, but the only thing man made was a black plastic pipe that led up to the house. There were wooden posts spaced evenly around the base of the rocks as if there had been a fence there in the past.

“What’s on the other side?” I asked you when you came back with something to eat.

“Nothing much, just more of this.” You gave me the plate then gestured at the ground and sat next to me on the couch. “It’s not your escape route, if that what you’re hoping it is. Your only way of escaping is through me and that’s bad luck for you, I guess, since I’ve already made my escape by coming here.”

I ignored you. Even if it were my way out, you wouldn’t tell me. Instead I asked, “why didn’t I see them before, when I tried to run?”

“You weren’t looking.” You said simply and shrugged. “You were too upset to see anything much then.”

“Where are we?” I asked again, hoping for a real answer this time.

“Everywhere and nowhere.” You looked at me intensely. “This place belongs to my family, I guess. I didn’t know about it until I was your age though. My uncle lived out here, not that any of us ever knew where he as. We lived in Paris, and he’d come to visit us every so often. My parents were like yours. Rich and corrupt. My uncle always said he wanted to rescue me from them, so he left me this place when he died. I came out here for a few weeks when I was nineteen, and then when I got home, everything was different.”

I turned away and picked at the food you gave me. I didn’t want to know anything about you or your life. After I finished eating, I set the plate aside and wrapped my arms around my legs, cradling my knees, gripping them too tightly to my chest, “why am I here?”

“Because this place is beautiful, and you’re beautiful. Beautifully separate. You fit here.”

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice foreign.

“Company,” you smiled so innocently that I almost believed you. Almost.

“How long are you going to keep me?”

You shrugged and looked out to the desert again, “forever, I suppose.”

So you had no intention of ever letting me go home. Had you even asked for a ransom, did you even want one? “My parents have money, if that’s what you want. They’ll give you whatever you want if you just let me go home. They won’t even turn you over to the police, they’ll just give you the money if you let me go home to them.”

You looked offended, as if I had said the worst possible thing to you, “How could you think that? You think that I brought you here because I want money from your parents? I don’t want anything from them, especially not money. I don’t want money that your father earned through the corruption of the government.”

Your voice became so stern and harsh that I didn’t say anything to you. I couldn’t understand why I was there if it wasn’t so that you could get money. What else could you want? Fresh fear began to course through me; I had heard stories of people kidnapping young girls and boys to keep them as sex slaves, is that what you wanted? I had already learned from experience that I couldn’t fight you off. 

We sat there in silence for some time, my thoughts whirling through the possibilities of what you wanted from me. None of them were good. Eventually you turned to me and said, “come on, I’ll show you around the house.”

I didn’t want to see the house. But I didn’t want to antagonise you either. You led me back to my room, “This is your room. I bought you clothes that I thought you’d like.” You gestured towards a drawer and I pulled it open. I don’t know how you knew that they’d fit me. I noticed that a lot of the shirts were green, and my eyes narrowed. Green was my favourite colour, how did you know all of this? Did you know all of this? I didn’t ask. I feared the answers too much. “There’s underwear in the next draw over, more clothes in the other drawers, plenty of shoes right there.”

You showed me to the next room over. Your bedroom. I didn’t comment on how you said that it was where you slept for now. There was a camp bed in the room, nothing like the plush double in the other, and I clearly understood that it was only temporary.

I already knew the bathroom, so you didn’t bother showing me that. Maybe you didn’t want to think about the last time we had been in there together. There next door along led to a cupboard, and I didn’t really see the point of it. It was mostly empty, except for a load of games on the lowest shelf. They were all games I’d played at home, with Jehan and Courfeyrac, or on holidays with my parents. I felt sick as I looked at them. Did you know that I’d passed my time at home playing these games with my friends? There were some books in there too, the classics we’d studied in school, jammed in between some language guides. English and Aboriginal languages. It all clicked into place then.

“We’re in Australia.” I stated.

You nodded, a slight smile playing at the corner of your lips. “Took you a while.”

I remembered what you’d said to me by the Seine, realised why you looked so intense when you asked if I wanted to visit… and then the odd way that your accent seemed tinged with another. It made sense, apart from the fact that I never realised that Australia was made up of desert. But I felt a little glimmer of hope anyway; Australia was civilised, with a good law system and police and a government. Dad had been here. People could be looking for me already.

But then the glimmer of hope faded. You’d taken me from Paris, why would anyone think to look in Australia?

“Who knows I’m here?” I asked, not really sure if I wanted to know the answer.

“No one. No one knows where either of us are. We’re in the middle of the desert, no one thinks anyone could live out here, we’re not even on the map.”

“Nowhere is unmapped.”

“This is.”

“You’re lying to me.”

You looked offended again, “I don’t lie. Especially not to you.”

I didn’t believe you. “How did you get me here then, if we’re not on a map?”

“In the back of the car. It took a while.” You hissed the last part, your eyes narrowing slightly. I still didn’t believe you.

In fact, I was so sure that you were lying that I folded my arms across my chest, the true sign of a petulant teenager, and said, “I would have remembered.”

“I made sure you didn’t.”

That made me shut up. Your eyes darted away from mine, almost ashamed of what you’d just said, and I took a step away from you. I remembered feeling like the world was speeding up around me while I was slowing down when we were sat on the bridge. I remembered the chemical smell of the cloth over my face. The feeling of being in the car without a seatbelt on. I tried to pry more memories out of their hiding place, but they wouldn’t come. I shook my head, unsure that I really wanted them to come anyway. I wondered what other horrible little secrets you had up your sleeve, what else you knew about me.

“Someone will have seen you.” I whispered.

You scoffed, “doubt it.”

“There are cameras in airports… CCTV everywhere, even in the park by the Seine. Someone will have seen you.”

“By the Seine there are a few,” You agreed with a short bob of your head, “thought most don’t have film in. Trust me, I was very thorough when making sure that no one saw.”

“Someone will be looking for me. My parents, my friends.”

“Probably.”

You spoke with so much apathy that it scared me. You truly didn’t care that you had snatched me up from my life and that you were keeping me here as a hostage. You didn’t care that people we looking for me. “My parents are important, you know. My dad is valuable in the government.”

“I know.”

“They’ve got contacts. Money. Enough money to hire private detectives. They’ll be on TV, they’ll put my picture all over the world. Someone will recognise it and then they’ll find me.”

“Unlikely.” You took a step towards me, you face bland as you stared at me. “You were in the boot most of the way here, under blankets.”

Images past through my mind of my body curled up in the boot, thrown there like a piece of luggage. I was in my own personal horror movie, and the murder scene could come at any second. No matter how much you told me that you weren’t going to do anything to me, I didn’t believe you. I crossed my arms over my chest, hugging my torso like a child. How could I not remember any of this? Why only tiny fragments? I took another step away from you, backing up towards the door, “People must have seen us by the Seine. The guy you bought the drinks from, people walking their dogs. In the airport, someone will have seen you. Someone will have seen me. It’s impossible you could have got past all that security without anyone…”

You sighed and leaned against the wall, clearly tired of going over and over this, “if anyone saw you, then didn’t recognise you. You were wearing a wig, sunglasses, shoes with a lift, different clothes. I used a fake passport for you with a fake name. No one saw.” You moved towards me. Your eyes had that intense look about them again, just like they did when we were sat there by the Seine, like there was something you wanted. I’d fallen for that look then, but not this time. “Don’t you remember getting changed in the car? Don’t you remember trying to touch me? You thought it was fun at the time.”

I didn’t believe you. If I knew what you were doing I never would have thought that it was fun; I would have thought it was sick and twisted, just as it was. You moved again, making it so that you were in between me and the door. I reached for one of the books on the shelf.

“You’re a new person now,” You murmured, and for a moment I wondered if you were insane. “The old you’s been left behind, you have a chance to start over again out here, why can’t you see that as a good thing?”

I didn’t want a chance to start over. I shut my eyes. I could remember how badly I’d wanted to kiss you when we were in the airport, and it made me feel like my chest might explode from grief. “I hate you. I really fucking hate you.”

You recoiled as if I’d burnt you, and softly said, “maybe that’ll change.”

***

I couldn’t sleep that night, more so than usual. I found it impossible to drift off. I tried thinking about Jehan, Courfeyrac, Feuilly… anyone back home. My parents. But I couldn’t remain focused on them for long. Whenever I got to thinking about them, my mind wandered back to you and how there was nothing between us but a wall. You were only a few meters away on that army cot, dreaming. I pictured you, on that mess of blankets, thinking about me, eyes wide open as you imagined how you’d kill me. Or maybe you could see me from your room. Maybe you got a kick off of watching me.

I slept in the end; my body must have given out to exhaustion. When I did, I was plagued with dreams. Dreams that were really memories of back home. Just before I woke up, you wrapped me in your arms and whispered, “you’re with me now, and I’ll never let you go.”

I woke up frantically, my heart seizing with sadness. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be with Jehan and my parents. I wanted to carry on living my life as I had been. I pushed myself out of bed. There was no way I could sleep again; I didn’t want to risk another dream, so I got up and explored the house. I knew where you were, in the bedroom next to mine, so I skipped that room. I found myself in the lounge, looking at the furniture. It was all old and second hand. I wandered, looking through all of the drawers and cupboards until I found myself in a walk in cupboard, much like the storage room we’d been in the night before.

It was full of food; bags of sugar, rice and pasta… things that wouldn’t perish if we were out here for a long time. It was well organised, as if you had had a long time to place things on the shelf and rearrange it until it was just right. I looked at the cans, sandwiched in between dried fruit and bags of lentils. There were nicer things too, like cocoa and jelly packets, and a whole shelf full of different juices.

I stayed in there for a while, not really looking at anything anymore. When I stepped out and shut the door behind myself, you were there, standing in the kitchen. I stepped back quickly, away from you. Your expression was serious, as if you had been waiting for me there for a while. “What were you doing there?”

“Just looking,” I said, but you didn’t seem pleased with my answer. You pressed your lips together tightly and glared, making me feel two feet tall. I felt my heartbeat quicken as I scrambled for an excuse, “if I’m staying a while, I thought I’d better get to know where things are.”

You nodded, seemingly pleased with that answer. “Did you find anything of interest?”

“Just a lot of food.” I shrugged.

“Well, we’ll need it.” You explained.

“Isn’t there somewhere to buy more?”

“No, I told you.”

I thought back to the cupboard. How did you get it all there? What would happen if I destroyed it all? Would it make you leave me alone so that you could go and get more? Would it push you over the edge, would it finally make you snap and kill me? At that point I think I would have just preferred if you ended it all. “How long will it last?”

You shrugged, “The stuff in there… about a year. There’s more in the outbuilding, a lot more. We’re sorted. I thought about all of this before I came for you, don’t worry.” 

You walked over to the sink and washed your hands, then started pulling cooking utensils out of their places to start cooking breakfast. I carried on opening doors and drawers, looking what was in them, until I reached one that was locked. I tugged at it slightly, but it didn’t budge, “why is this one locked?”

“For your safety.” You looked at me, and then down at my wrist, which was no longer wrapped in a white bandage. The cut was there for you to see. Good, I thought. Let it be a reminder of what you were doing to me. “After your little trick with the glass I don’t want you hurting yourself again.”

I chose to ignore that. “What’s inside it?” I asked. When you didn’t answer, I started tugging on the drawer again, my curiosity sparked, and you stepped away from what you were doing and lunged at me. I screamed, and your arms wrapped around my waist. You lifted me off of the ground and carried me like a doll, as I kicked out and screamed, all the way back to my room. You dropped me on the bed and I scrambled away.

“Breakfast will be done in half an hour.” You said before you slammed the door behind yourself.


	4. Chapter 4

I started watching you carefully, becoming familiar with your routine. If I had any hope of escaping, I needed to know more about this place and I needed to know more about you. I watched you when you thought I was reading, or when you didn’t even realise I was there to watch you, looking for patterns in your behaviour. I was scared, more so than I ever had been in my entire life, but I had to watch.

I couldn’t remember how long I’d been there for, but by my estimates it was nearly twenty days. In that time I came to learn very little about your routine; you woke early, came to check on me and I was always pretend to be asleep, then you would shower. While it was still cool out, you would go outside, although I don’t know what you did there. I would try to listen, but you were always very quiet. Everything around there was quiet; there were no planes, no cars, just silence. It was enough to drive me crazy. I missed the loud hustle and bustle of the Parisian streets that I had grown up to love so much.

You always came back in after a few hours, at which point you would come into my room to wake me up. Then, you’d make breakfast, call me through to eat, and then went out to one of the other buildings for another couple of hours. I didn’t know what you did in there. My mind believed that you kept other kidnapped teenagers in there.

I would usually sit on the old, battered sofa on the porch. That way, I’d be able to tell if you left, and I could still look for a way of escaping. As the days passed, it became clear that there wasn’t one. Not that I allowed myself to give up hope. You would always come and sit with me after you’d been in the other building for some time, but for the longest time I didn’t reply. You can’t blame me. I was on guard if you were looking at me, a scream in my throat that constantly wanted to escape. But I knew that I couldn’t keep ignoring you, so I started looking at you when you spoke. Then, I started asking you questions.

I’d already given up on starving myself. The clothes you bought me were already too big from my days of refusing your food. By the seventeenth day I gave in, telling myself that I had to do more than pick at food when you weren’t around. I never enjoyed what you cooked; I’m not sure if it was the lack of materials, or if you just lacked the skills, but it was never tasty. You noticed, of course. Whenever it came to my health and well being you noticed.

“You don’t eat properly, you’re losing weight.” You said. “I can make you something else if you don’t like this, I really don’t mind.”

I looked down at the food you’d given me. It tasted like trash and anything else you cooked me would taste just as bad, but I couldn’t say that to you. So I didn’t say anything, and watched you eat yours instead.

“What do you do all day?” I asked. “Out there in that building.”

“I do quite a few things, I suppose.” You answered, looking pleased that I was taking an interest in you. “I read, learn about the world. I write, mostly about the government. Just for recreation. I’m trying to give you your space. There’s stuff out there for you too, paints, paper, all that kind of thing.”

I stopped eating. I had never mentioned that I liked art, and yet you knew. Just as you had known that green was my favourite colour, you knew that I liked to create things. And yet, I couldn’t understand how you knew. How had you learnt all these things about me? I’m not sure that I wanted to know.

“You can come out there with me, if you want.” You offered. “If I can trust you. Can I?”

“I sit out there everyday, I know I can’t go anywhere,” I said, eventually. “I know that trying to escape is hopeless. I won’t try any more.”

I don’t think you believed me. I wouldn’t have believed me either. I was hellbent on escaping and it was obvious. I think you wanted to believe me though, to think that I was coming around to you. You nodded quickly, you eyes wide as a child’s on Christmas morning, as if I had just given you the best present in the world.

**

The next morning, I ate breakfast with you, and then we headed out to the outside building together. I started regretting it. I hesitated as we walked past your car, looking to see if the keys were still in the ignition or somewhere with you. You looked bored when I caught up with you, and said, “I don’t know why you keep trying. I keep telling you, there’s no way out. There are no other people for 100 kilometres.”

You started to open the door to the building, and panic set in. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be in there with you, in such a small place. At least in the house I could run and hide, but in there it didn’t look like there was anywhere to get away. I backed away, suddenly very convinced that you might be trying to lure me in to murder me. I had this image in my head of my body being left to rot in there, with other bodies already decomposed around me.

“I don’t think I want to go in.”

You grabbed my shoulders and shoved me inside anyway, your face excited. I started to scream, but that only made you hold me tighter. I struggled against you, tried to get away, but you arms were fastened and solid; a python’s grip. You dragged me further into the room, and I screamed louder. It was so dark I couldn’t see a thing, for all I knew you were about to throw me into a crate of knives or something.

“Stop Grantaire!” You shouted. “You’re going to break things, stop!”

I bit your arm hard enough to make you loosen your grip. I fell to the floor, hitting my elbow hard against it. You grabbed my shoulder and pushed me down, using your strength to keep me there. “Please, stop! I said stop!”

You were hysterical, your voice on edge. I clawed at the floor, my nails screamed along it, trying to find purchase on something so that I could get away from you. I lashed out, my fist connected with something hard and you let me go. I got up and stumbled away, running to where I thought the door was. You were still yelling for me to stop. I tripped and hit the floor again, falling into something wet and sticky. I crawled through it, thinking it might be blood, and didn’t try to stop the tears that were running down my face. I kept crawling, but the more I tried the more I slipped. My whole arms felt sticky, like they were layered with blood. Had you hit me without me realising? I began to feel my forehead, my arms and my throat. Was I crawling through the blood of other teenagers you’d maimed?

“Please Grantaire just stay where you are!”

At any moment, I was sure that I’d feel a knife or an axe slicing through me. I kept crying and screaming, so ashamed of myself for reacting as I was, like I was weak and at your mercy. But I didn’t know where the door was, I had no idea how I could get out.

And then you pulled open the curtains, and I saw it all. There were no bodies. No dead people or anything malevolent. It was just us in a large, one roomed building. I was sat in the middle of it all, in a puddle of colours that were scattered all over. My arms were covered in blood, or in what I thought was blood. I touched my skin, feeling for pain but nothing hurt. I lifted my arm to my nose. It smelt like paint.

“It’s paint.” You said. “I brought it out here for you.”

I spun around quickly, still slipping in the mass of colours. You were by the door, looking at me with anger written plainly on your face. Your eyes were dark and I started shaking, terrified even more so now that I had been moments before. You just watched me, and I waited for you to move. You looked like a wild animal as you stood there, but you were still as stone, all of your anger in your face. Your hands were clenched into fists and I knew you were going to hit me. I’d been in fights before while I was in school, but I was sure that they would be nothing compared to a beating you could give me.

You squinted at me, looking at the mess I had made on the concrete floor. You took a step towards me, then crouched down on the backs of your heels. You didn’t move into the area that I was in, where paint covered everything. You stayed on the edge, just looking at it all… looking at me.

“This is my study, I guess.” I looked around, spotting books lining the shelves on the other end of the outhouse, a desk with papers stacked high on either side. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I swear. I should have opened the curtains before I brought you in here. I was just worried about wasting paint and things getting broken, that’s why I yelled. I didn’t think, I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were going to… I thought…” I couldn’t say anymore, my thoughts to horrible to complete.

“I know.” You sighed and looked down at the mess I had created in your private sanctuary, and I almost felt bad. Your face was tired and empty, “Just relax, please. Neither of us can go on like this. Just know that I did all of this because it’s what’s for the best.”

Your face screamed with honesty, like you really did want the best for me. For the first time, I began to think of you as something other than a monster. I began to see you as lost and misguided, lonely out there on your own. But the feeling was fleeting, when I remembered that you were condemning me to your fate too. I nodded, and summoned all of my courage to meet your gaze. I looked directly into your eyes, seeing all the pain and loneliness there, and said, “just… let me go. Please, just for a little while. Nothing bad will happen, I promise.”

I glanced at the door, and then tears started running down your face. For once, you couldn’t look at me. You couldn’t hold my gaze. You pulled your knees up to your chest and rested you forehead against them, and I felt sympathetic for you then. Maybe you weren’t a monster. Maybe you really did think you were doing this for my benefit. You dipped your finger into the edge of the paint by where you were sat and swirled patterns into it.

“Fine,” you whispered, your voice so quiet and delicate that I wondered if it were merely a fragment of my imagination. “You can go. I won’t fight you this time, I’ll only come after you and save you when you get lost.”

That was all I needed to hear. I didn’t hesitate, I just got up, carefully stepped my way through the paint, and hurried past you. I was waiting for you to grab me, for your fingers to latch onto my ankle and tug me back down to the ground with you. But you just carried on swirling your finger through the paint and let me go.

The door opened easily before me, and I stepped out into the bright sunlight. Behind me, you sobbed. Only once, but the sound was so full of pain it almost made me falter.


	5. Chapter 5

I started running the second I slammed the door behind myself. I headed towards the boulders, constantly looking behind me. It didn’t matter though; for once, you weren’t following me, and I felt a kind of relief and joy that I had never before experienced.

The sun was so hot, that I felt tired after a few minutes, and sweat was pouring off of me. I looked down at the plastic pipe that came from the house, and disappeared into the mess of boulders as I slowed down to a steady walk. I decided to follow it; wherever it led, it had to be to civilisation. We had to be getting water from somewhere. I kept close to it, wading my way through the overgrown plants that somehow managed to thrive under the heat of the sun. The path was rocky and uneven, getting narrower all the time, and I started to wonder if I was going in the right direction after all. I paused and looked around, reconsidering my options. I could retrace my steps and go around the boulders, rather than through the middle.

I heard a thud over from the building I had left you in, indicating that you had changed my mind and were coming after me, and I knew that I had no time to waste. Time was not on my side. I started walking again, squeezing myself through small gaps, for the first time thanking God for making me so petite. I kept walking, feeling as though the rocks could fall in and crush me at any moment, tripping over constantly, but I couldn’t stop. This was the farthest I had gotten from you in weeks, I wouldn’t give up so easily.

Eventually, I followed the pipe into a large clearing. It was plush, grass covering every surface, other pathways leading out into other parts of the jungle of rocks. I took a moment to appreciate the greenery, suddenly missing home all the more, before scolding myself. I was taking too long. The quicker I got through the clearing, the better. You could catch up with me at any second, and standing there exposed as I was, was a mistake that I was not willing to make.

I carried on following the pipe, wading my way through tall patches of grass. It was cooler there, surrounded by the boulders and the vegetation, but it was still blisteringly hot. I could feel my shoulder burning and blistering with every step that I took. I felt an unbelievable sense of joy when I spotted a large pool of clear water. I was relieved, half tempted to throw my body into the pool and cool down for a while. But I didn’t have time to waste. I crouched down, studying the water intensely. It didn’t look unclean, but I wasn’t sure if I could risk drinking some. I debated for a long moment, before I decided it would be wiser not to risk it.

I stood up and walked around; looking for any sign of the pipe, but it was gone. I had lost my trail, and that’s when it clicked. The pipe stopped at the pool. I ran my hands through my hair and tugged at the dark strands in frustration; so you weren’t lying. There really wasn’t anything around. No other houses or buildings using the same water supply as us. No water plant supplying us with water. Just this one pool of water. I could have screamed.

I told myself to snap out of it. I had to carry on walking if I wanted to get away; I could morn the loss of the pipe as I walked. It proved more difficult, now that I had lost my sense of direction, but I had to carry on. I got lost before long, and I don’t know how long I spent trying to get out of that awful boulder jungle, just walking in circles. It felt like forever, but at least I was on my own. You hadn’t followed me this time. I clung to the belief that you thought I’d run somewhere else.

I walked around in circles for the longest time, until an idea struck me. I spotted what looked like a sturdy tree, and hoisted myself up into it. It took me a long time to reach the top, and the effort tired me out completely, but I didn’t give up. When I reached the top, I looked out over the desert and my heart sank. There was nothing there. Only sand and horizon. No matter which direction I turned myself, there was nothing other than emptiness.

I wanted to scream, but I knew that you’d hear me and then you’d find me for sure. If I’d had a gun, I would have shot myself on the spot.

I sank back down into the tree a little, comforting myself against one of the sturdier branches. I couldn’t help the sobs that erupted from my chest. There was no way out. My mind wandered to my parents. What were they doing? What did they think when I hadn’t gone home that night after the fight? What had they done about it? The tears came even stronger when I realised that the last thing we had said to each other was so unpleasant. Did my mum feel guilty that the last thing she said to me was that I was a disappointment to them? I wished that I could tell her that I knew she didn’t mean it.

After a while, when I had calmed down enough, I heard your car driving around beneath me. I could see you, sat behind the wheel. You stopped the car, not too far from where I was sat up the tree, and waited. My heart sank; you knew exactly where I was. You probably had all this time. I convinced myself that you were just taking a chance; you didn’t really know where I was. So I stayed put.

I sat up there in the tree for a long time, until the sun started to descend. It got cold then. So cold that my body started to shake before I could stop it. I hadn’t been outside at night before, but I was aware that it was always colder at night. I hadn’t ever felt that kind of cold before. It seemed unreal that the desert could be so hot in the day, and then turn so cold at night.

After it turned dark, you switched on your headlights and drove away. I could see a panicked look on your face. You didn’t know where I was. I figured I must just be near the exit, that I must be close to freedom, and that’s why you chose to wait there. The first time you disappeared, I took my chance and climbed down from the tree and started walking around again, making sure that I remained hidden. I got closer and closer to the perimeter with each step I took. I had to keep moving to stay warm. Occasionally, I could hear your car slowly passing by as you patrolled for any sign of me, so I ducked away and hid behind whatever I could.

The next time I thought you were gone; I stepped out from my sanctuary behind the trees. I was planning to take of running across the flatland, but as soon as I was out of the boulder jungle I was exposed. I couldn’t have taken more than fifteen steps before I spotted you. You were sat on the bonnet of your car, just looking at me, wrapped up in a thick red sweatshirt. My heart stopped, and I considered taking off running anyway. Would you have chased me?

“Grantaire, just come back to me.” You called out, holding another sweatshirt in your hands. I didn’t move, almost as if I didn’t move, you wouldn’t be able to see me. “There’s no way out, I swear. I’ll wait here all night if I have to. All week. You can’t escape me.”

You got up and walked over to me, then put the sweatshirt on me like I was a child. I didn’t struggle. I just let you lead me back to the car and then into the house. You sat me down on the couch and wrapped me in blankets, put a cup of the cocoa in my hands to warm me up. I felt like I had already died inside. You were saying something to me, but I was too busy reeling from my loss. I had been so close to escaping, but you were right, there was nowhere to go. The truth was too hard to listen to.

But the truth was, wherever I went, you could catch me. There was no getting away.


	6. Chapter 6

After my failed attempt at escape, we were back to square one. I stopped talking to you again. I stopped going outside. I stopping making attempts to familiarise myself with your schedule. There was no point; no matter how much I knew about you and your habits, there was no getting away. I stopped counting the days that I’d been there. I just tried to forget about everything.

You were worried. You sat beside me in bed, sometimes your hand would work its way up into my hair and stroke the curls there, but I didn’t respond. You talked to me, even though I wouldn’t look at you and tried not to listen. I would just curl up and wish that I was dead.

I dreamt of home constantly. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw my parents. I saw Jehan and Courfeyrac holding hands. I saw Feuilly drawing in charcoal while I created with paint. My heart broke when I closed my eyes one day, and I couldn’t remember the exact shade of green that made Jehan’s eyes so beautiful. I couldn’t remember the look Courfeyrac got on his face when he grinned. I could remember my mother’s nursing uniform, but I couldn’t picture her face exactly. I could see her eyes, piercing blue like my own, but I couldn’t picture the curve of her nose or what her hair had been like before you took me. I couldn’t put the pieces of my loved ones together. It terrified me, that I could lose these facts about everyone I cared about in the space of a few weeks. I had been so wrapped up in planning my escape that I had forgotten to think about them.

Were they forgetting me too? Were they forgetting the way my hair was always a mess, or that my clothes were always covered in paint? I couldn’t shake off the worry that they were.

When I opened my eyes again, you were there, just watching me with those wide, concerned eyes that haunted me. You smiled at me, a smile that faded away as I looked away. “How are you feeling today?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. It was as if I had forgotten how to speak. You sighed sadly, but didn’t stop trying, “Can I make you something to eat? Get you a drink? You really need to stay hydrated, and you can’t carry on not eating, you’ll get sick.”

Good, I thought. Let me get so sick I wither away and die. I didn’t say anything though, I just sat there, hoping that if I stayed so still and silent you would leave me alone again. But you didn’t. Instead, you reached out and ran your fingers across my forehead, as if you were feeling for the hints of a fever. I didn’t know how you’d be able to tell anyway, with the heat of the atmosphere keeping me constantly boiling.

“I miss the sound of your voice.” You said. “I know what you’re doing though. I understand. I went silent once too. My parents thought something bad had happened to me, some people thought I’d gone deaf and couldn’t hear them talking to me.”

You left me alone after that, only coming back into my room to place a notebook and a pencil beside my bed. I snatched it up as soon as you were gone. I drew Jehan first, but I couldn’t get the shape of his eyes just right, so I tried Courfeyrac but I couldn’t find a way to draw how infectious his smile was. I drew mum with such a lifeless expression on her face that it made my heart ache. I screwed that page up and threw it across the room. The pictures I drew looked like my friends, but they all missed something. Something that I couldn’t put my finger on. Something that if I were to see them again, I would be able to recognise straight away. I doubted I’d ever be given that opportunity again.

I tried writing a letter, in hopes that maybe you’d take pity on me and let me send it home, but I knew that you wouldn’t. I couldn’t get anything out anyway. My page was blank other than the words “Dear Mum and Dad.” There was too much to say and not enough words. I didn’t want to risk you reading it either.

**

I couldn’t stay in that room forever. After days, maybe even weeks of sleeping and not doing much else, I had to get up. Everything was stiff. I awoke my body carefully, one limb at a time. I bent my knees, flexed my toes, moved my shoulders in small circles. My arms felt weak and pathetic as I tried to push myself up and out of bed, and my legs shook horrifically when I finally managed to stand up. I worried that I’d fall over again.

I got changed, but the clothes were too big already. Three weeks ago they would have been a perfect fit, but now the shorts were loose on my hips and I had to pull the strings tight to get them to stay up. My stomach was thin, my hipbones sharp.

I tiptoed over to the bathroom, disliking the thought of being heard by you, and washed my face under the sink. I stuck my head under the tap and chugged at the water, surprised to see how thirsty I really was. When I was full, the fluid sloshing about in my empty stomach I considered what to do next. I didn’t want to go back to the room.

I found you in the kitchen. Your head was low to the table as you scribbled on a piece of paper. I hadn’t heard you leave the house for days. Perhaps you didn’t trust me to be alone again. I wondered what you were doing; perhaps writing out your plan to abduct another teenager and keep them hostage without any sort of explanation. You didn’t look up as I walked through the kitchen, treading lightly. For once you were more engrossed in something else than you were me.

I sat on the old sofa out on the porch again. In plain sight, I could see the boulder jungle just a little way away from us, and it made me angry. It made me think of how I had tried so hard to get away, just to end up back with you.

I glanced up at the sky, hoping for a plane or a bird but there was nothing. No helicopter that signified a rescue mission. Just blue, blue sky. And nothing but horizon in front of me. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

“You’re up,” You said, sounding relieved. Maybe you thought I’d gone missing again. I hadn’t heard you approach. “I’m glad, it’s a nice day.”

I didn’t say anything. I was too full of sadness. If I talked to you, it would come spilling out and I didn’t want you to know that you had that kind of affect on me. I just kept staring straight ahead as you offered me food and water, asking me what you could do.

“Why don’t we talk?” You asked, your voice sounding similar to how it had done by the Seine. “Tell me about your life, anything… your friends, your parents. Just anything.”

I didn’t want you to know about my life, I didn’t want you to know anything about me or the people I loved. I wrapped my arms around my legs, hugging them to my chest. What would mum be doing now? How upset was she that I had disappeared? Were they still trying to get me back, or did they think that I was dead?

You didn’t say anything for a while, and I was glad. Having you sitting next to me was bad enough. You just stared out at the land, and I watched you out of the corner of my eye, trying to figure out what your next move would be. You looked uncomfortable, but I knew you were trying to think of something for us to talk about. Something interesting enough to entice my voice from it’s hiding place. Eventually you sighed and spoke in a voice so devastated it made my heart twinge, “is living with me really that bad?”

“Of course,” I whispered so quietly that I wasn’t even sure you had heard me.

But you had. You sat up straight at the sound of my voice, surprised that I had spoken at all, but then you composed yourself and said, “it could be worse, you know?”

You were wrong. I couldn’t think of anything worse, not even dying. I would much rather have been dead than just there, looking out into the vast nothingness day in, day out. And for all I knew, I was waiting to be killed anyway. I shut my eyes, willing memories from my old life to come into my head. But you weren’t ready to let me go back to my dreamland yet.

“At least there aren’t any cities. No concrete, no tall buildings, just nature.”

“I like cities.”

“Nothing’s real in a city. No one is real.”

I buried my head in my knees and whispered, “I miss it.”

You put your hand on my shoulder, as if you were trying to be comforting and said, “I’m sorry about your parents.”

I didn’t understand. Had you done something to my parents? Did you know something that I didn’t? I looked at you and frowned, “sorry about what?”

“Leaving your parents behind.” You replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I would have brought them if I thought it would make you happier but it’s better like this. Just you and me. It’s the only way it could really work.”

“How long have you been planning this?” I asked, though I wasn’t really sure that I wanted to know the answer. I swallowed my fear.

You shrugged, “A while, two or three years. But I’ve been watching you for longer than that.”

“How long?” I asked, the thought of you watching me making me feel sick to the stomach. What had you seen? Private moments?

“Six or seven years.”

“Since I was ten?”

You nodded, and I couldn’t see any sign on your face that suggested that you knew what you had done was wrong. “On and off.”

“I don’t believe you.” I said. But something in my head was telling me to think about it. There was something there, a nagging feeling that had been with me since the Seine, that if I thought about it a little more, might make sense of this entire mess. I searched my memory, trying to find your face anywhere in it. There was nothing specific, but there were hazy, half-remembered things; like the good looking man Courfeyrac had once seen waiting outside the school gates, and the time we all went on a picnic and I thought I saw someone in the bushes. Was that you, I wondered/ Had you been watching me that long? Surely not, I wasn’t that interesting. But there was something else there, something else I couldn’t quite remember.

“Why me?” I whispered. “Why not some other kid?”

“You were you.” You said, a smile on your lips. “And anyway, you found me.”

I stared at you, my eyes wide and intent, “what do you mean?”

You cocked your head to the side, sending a cascade of blond curls over your shoulder, and looked at me curiously. When I didn’t say anything, you said, “you don’t remember? You don’t remember meeting me that first time? I remember you.”

You moved your hand towards me as if you were going to touch me, and you looked like you might cry again. When I spoke, my voice was sharp and harsh, and it made you drop your hand, “It didn’t happen, that’s why I don’t remember. You’re making it up, it isn’t true.”

“It happened,” You reassured, your face set in a sense of determination that I have come to relate with you and only you. “There’s nothing more true. You just haven’t remembered it yet. I understand, you were young. But don’t worry, you’ll remember it eventually, and then you’ll understand.”


	7. Chapter 7

You came back out after a while, two glasses of water in your hand. You handed one to me, then sipped slowly at the other one. You kept watching me, and for the first time I watched you in return. I think you were waiting for me to say something; you didn’t really seem like the type to talk too much. I stayed silent for a long time, until my curiosity wore away at me and I asked, “who are you?”

“Just Enjolras.” You sighed, as if you weren’t really sure how to answer. “I already told you I come from Paris. The only child of wealthy parents. They were young when they had me, though mum never really wanted me in the first place. But I was there, and they wouldn’t risk the embarrassment of terminating the pregnancy or putting me up for adoption. They hired someone to look after me so that they wouldn’t have to do it themselves. The older I got the more they could tolerate me, but they started building a future for me that I didn’t want. They wanted me to go to law school, study to become a lawyer and I wasn’t interested. There’s no honour in being part of such a corrupt system.”

It was weird to hear you talk so much, and I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about it. Normally, you said a few words at a time, maybe a full sentence. I never thought that maybe you had a story too. Until then, you were just my kidnapper. My crazy, mentally ill kidnapper. There were no reasons for the things you did. You were just evil and mentally ill. That’s all. But when you started talking, you changed.

I was silent as I thought. When I was young, my parents had adored me. There wasn’t a thing I could do wrong for them. Of course it all changed when I got older, more rebellious, but they still loved me. They never merely tolerated me. Mum cherished me. They’d had another kid before I was born, a girl, but she died when I was still too young to remember her. Dad told me that mum was terrified that she might lose me too. My heart broke then as I realised that was exactly what had happened. Mum had lost me, to you. I hated you all over again when I realised that. 

“They started applying for me to go to university in all the best places, talked about sending me away to England so that I could have a good education, wouldn’t listen when I said I didn’t want to go. My uncle used to tell me he’d bring me here when I was eighteen, but he died before he had the chance. He’s the one who really loved me, as crazy and eccentric as he was. He always used to say that he wished I was his son, and that he’d have raised me right. He said he would have saved me from the world, and in a way he did. He left me this place.”

You looked out across the horizon for a while before continuing, “I came out here when he died, lived out here for a few months then went back home and nothing was the same anymore. Everything had changed and I hated it. Mum and Dad wouldn’t pay for me to come back out here. They said it didn’t look right to have a son coming and going all the time, and I couldn’t afford to get back out here on my own, so I just left.”

“So they kinda stole this life from you?” I said softly. You nodded. “And you stole me from mine. Am I your way of getting back at them.”

“No, I didn’t steal you. I saved you from all of that. I saw what you were and what you deserved and I saved you from what was preventing you from it.”

“I wish you hadn’t.”

You recoiled like you’d been burnt, “Don’t say that. Please.” 

You didn’t want to hear the truth, so I didn’t say anything at all.

**

I woke up before you the next morning, my stomach protesting at the lack of food I had allowed it. I pushed up out of bed, padded down the hallway, and rooted through the cupboards. I didn’t know how you’d react if you caught me looking through your things again, but I was too hungry at that point to care. And if I made enough food for us both, I resolved that you couldn’t be angry at all. You probably thought it was just a sign that I was warming to you.

I wanted pancakes. With treacle and cream. But you didn’t have that kind of thing, and I would have been happy enough with toast at that point. I found some dry oats, the kind that just needed hot water to be eatable. Cooking was the first thing I’d enjoyed since you took me. I used to love cooking with mum. Standing there in your kitchen and cooking made me think of home, just as most things did. But I enjoyed it. It kept my hands and my mind busy.

I found some dried meat stashed away in the cupboard and threw some in the pot with the boiling oats. I had no idea if it would taste good, but I didn’t care about wasting your supplies either. 

“You don’t have to cook,” You said, your voice very loud in the silence that had surrounded me. It made me jump so much that I nearly spilt the boiling food down my arm. I don’t think you noticed. “I don’t mind cooking for you.”

“I like cooking.” I told you in a quiet voice, but a small part of me wondered if you already knew that or not. If you’d been watching me for the last seven years, I couldn’t even begin to fathom the things that you knew about me. “Besides, it’s not like you’re the best chef in the world.”

You laughed, “that’s true. I’ve never been very good at it. We used to have someone cook for us, I never had to learn. Guess I just got used to eating bad cooking when I got out here that I forgot how bad it really is.”

“Maybe I could just do the cooking from now on?” I asked. It gave me something to do other than think about the fact that I was still your prisoner, and if it meant I’d never have to eat your cooking again, I would gladly cook every day for the rest of my life. I could always spit in your food too, which was a childish bonus I wasn’t ashamed of enjoying.

“If that’s what you want.” You sounded happy about it. I told you that it was.

“How long are you going to keep me?” I asked you when we sat at the table, food hot in front of us. I wondered how much it would hurt if I threw it all in your face.

You didn’t look up from your food, just started to eat. “I told you that already, I’m keeping you forever.”

“Here?”

“Not always,” you shook your head, frowning into your bowl. “When I can trust you… if I ever can, then we’ll go places. Not for a while yet, I need to know I can trust you first. But we’ll always come back. This is our home.”

This is your home, I thought. Not mine. Though the thought of getting out of here, even for a short while, excited me, I didn’t count on it. You were never going to be able to trust me, because I was never going to stop trying to get away from you.

“You don’t remember me for the first time, do you?”

“Why should I?” I said as I shovelled a piece of dried meat into my mouth. “It didn’t happen.”

“Yes it did. It was in the summer.” You began, your eyes far away. “You were at the park with your parents, walking your dog. You weren’t really paying him any attention, and neither were your parents. They just threw him the ball every so often, and you wandered off on your own. You were crawling through the bushes, whispering to some imaginary people about a mission you were on. Eventually, you crawled into the bushes where I was sat, all my stuff shoved in a backpack next to me. I’d been watching you, listening. I liked you little tales. You asked me if I was being held prisoner by the enemy. Then you sat down and told me all about the mission you were on. You just looked at me like a regular person. I liked that.”

My heart was racing so fast I worried it might break through my chest. Of course I knew that memory, but that didn’t explain how you knew it too. “That was a tramp in those bushes. Somebody old and dirty who didn’t have anywhere to go. It wasn’t you.”

You smiled. “You said you’d save me from the enemies.”

“No! That was not you.”

“It’s amazing what living rough can do to you,” You chewed on a bit of dried meat, one eyebrow raised quizzically. “Anyway, you were a child then, I looked old to you regardless, even if I was barely an adult myself.”

“You’re sick,” I hissed. “You were obsessed with a ten year old. You stalked a child, then abducted him seven years later? What kind of sick human being are you?”

“No,” You yelled. You slammed your fist down on the table hard enough for everything upon it to rattle. “That’s not how it happened. I wasn’t obsessed. I didn’t stalk you. You don’t know the whole story.”

“Well I don’t want to know it!”

You leaned across the table and I stood up from my seat, taking a couple of steps backwards. It was no use, you were up and around the table before I could even blink. You grabbed my wrist and tugged me so that there was barely any distance between us. “I am not a monster. You were just a child then, the moment I knew I wanted you came later. I watched you grow up, I watched while your parents pushed you into being like them, into making decisions you didn’t want. They were pushing you into a meaningless life and you didn’t want it, I know you didn’t.”

“You don’t know anything about my parents.”

“I know everything about them.”

I wanted to spit in your face. “You’re a liar.”

“I don’t lie.” You said, your face still angry and red. “It’s just the way things are.”

You let go of me, your face suddenly very calm again. I took a step backwards, unsure of what to do. Part of me wanted to run, while the other half wanted to grab the bowl of food on the table before me and throw it at you. “How do you know all of this? You can’t know all this!”

I glared at you, wishing that looks truly could kill. I wanted you to drop dead right there on that spot. You looked at me calmly, “I’ve watched you for a long time. I wasn’t obsessed, I was just curious. Nothing more. It was just… you were so much like me… you never seemed to fit in and neither did I. Can’t you ever remember me being there?”

“How could I, it’s all just stupid lies! You’re trying to mess with me!” I yelled, surprised by the sound of my own voice.

“I know you, Grantaire. I’ve seen you, nearly every day for the last seven years.”

I couldn’t look at you. I thought about the times I’d walked around naked when my parents weren’t home. I thought about the time when me and Jehan fooled around when we were fifteen because we were both curious. I thought about the time when Thierry came home with me after we got drunk in the park. Were you thinking about those things too?

“What did you see?” I hissed. “How?”

You shrugged, “The oak tree near you bedroom. The window in the garage. The neighbour’s house when they went on their many travels. Obviously the park by the Seine. It’s easier than you think.”

Your face was close enough for me to reach out and punch you if I wanted to, and God, did I want to. I wanted hit you until you were lifeless on the floor. I wanted you to feel how I felt then, but you stepped even closer to me and cupped my cheek in your hand.

“Don’t touch me,” I snarled and slapped your hand away.

“I know who you are, R.”

At the use of my school nickname, I saw red. You truly did know everything about me. I felt violated and angry. I drew my arm back and struck out at you, but you caught my fist and twisted it behind my back, holding it in place there. You put your lips so close to me ear that you breath tickled my skin whenever you spoke, “I know what it was like, when they left you alone in that big house so they could work late… your friends getting off their heads in the park and you not knowing if you should join them or not. Thierry climbing the tree and tapping on your window every day for a week at three in the morning. Now tell me, were you really happy in the city? Did you really have a perfect life? Do you really miss it… your friends, your parents, any of it?”

You let go of my arm and let it fall to my side. I spun around to face you, “of course I do.”

“You know I’m talking sense,” you said, ignoring my claims. “Your parents are awful. They don’t care about you. They care about making money, making their house look like a perfect showroom and getting into the papers. They were trying to mould you to be like them too, training you to be a little version of them. I saved you from that.”

“No!” I clenched my teeth so tightly I thought they might crack.

You scoffed at my reaction, “I’ve heard you say it to them enough times, don’t act like it isn’t true.”

“I’m their son.”

“So what?”

“So I can.”

You picked up the bowls from the table and put them into the sink, “Face it, R, they loved work and expensive things more than they ever loved you. They only loved you when you acted like them. They missed you school awards night last year so they could pick up a new car.”

“I wasn’t getting an award.”

“But you still went, and everyone else’s parents were there. Jehan’s, Courfeyrac’s.”

I hated the way my friends name’s sounded on your tongue. “So were you by the sounds of it.”

“Of course I was, I was everywhere.” You shrugged. I couldn’t understand how you thought that it was the most normal thing in the world. “But don’t get me wrong, I can understand why they were like that. They wanted recognition, they wanted to fit in, just like most other people.”

“Apart from freaks like you,” I spat back.

“I want freedom.” You said simply. “You don’t get freedom in your parents’ lives, you just get fucked over. I saw things you didn’t see, remember? I heard the conversations you never heard.”

“No!” I yelled. “You don’t get to do that! You’re trying to poison me against my own life, you’re trying to tell me that you know my life better than I do!”

You shrugged, “and maybe I do. Shall I tell you about the things you never heard? Okay… hmm where to start. I know, your parents wanted to move away without you. Your mum talked to your dad about it, they were going to send you to stay with you aunt on the other side of Paris. And what about Thierry? I know exactly what he wanted to do to you after that night when you were both drunk. I know how far he wanted to go. I saw him follow you around like a sick puppy, saw his creepy text messages. He liked you, you know. Really liked you. He told Jehan about how much he wanted you.”

“You followed him too?”

“I followed everyone. You didn’t ever have to worry about Thierry though. Not really. I would have taken care of him before he could even lay a hand on you.”

I shook my head, trying to deny everything. I wanted to believe that you were lying, I needed to believe it so desperately, but everything added up. All the things you knew made too much sense for it all to be a bunch of lies. I wondered if anyone ever suspected Thierry when I went missing. Jehan knew that he was obsessed with me, knew it scared me, but I doubt anyone would think he’d go through all the trouble you did to steal me.

“They’ll find me you know?” I said. “Eventually. You can’t keep me forever. Or maybe you’ll just let me go. Maybe you’ll finally get bored of all of this. I can get help for you, or money. Dad knows so many people, lots of people, doctors, lawyers…”

“You still think that’s what I want?!” You roared, angry and on edge. You glared at me for a moment then shook your head, “You’ll see, maybe not now but you’ll see.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s this thing that murders do in horror films; they take their victims out on a long drive to remote location, and then they slowly and creatively pull them apart. It’s a common known thing. When you woke me that morning, the day after you revealed just how long you’d been watching me, I thought about that a lot.

“Let’s go on a drive.” You said an excited look on your face.

It was too early. It wasn’t quite hot yet, but not cold either. As I got dressed, I could hear you bustling about the house, hurrying to gather things together. It made me nervous; it could mean one of two things. One, I would have a greater opportunity to escape. Or two, I might never return. After our argument the night before, it wouldn’t surprise me if it were the latter.

“Where are you going?” I asked as you loaded up the car, packing up boxes of things and bottles of water.

“The middle of nowhere,” you grinned.

“I thought this was it.”

“Nope, this is just the edge.” I could see rope in the boot, coiled in a tight circle and shoved down between two boxes. I hated to think what it was for. “I’m not leaving you here on your own, you know.”

I ignored that last part. “How long are you going for?”

“We’re just going for a day, but you never know what might happen out there… we could hit a sandstorm, a fire, anything. It’s better to be prepared.”

I pictured myself in the boot, shoved in with everything as I had been on the way out. It made me shake a little. I went around the front instead and opened the door, trying to will all of the heat out of the car. The key wasn’t in the ignition, much to my dismay. I would have tried to drive off right then if it had been. You were humming something tunelessly, completely content.

You came around to see me after you finished. With your mouth smiling and your eyes crinkled, you looked just like you had when we sat by the Seine; handsome. I had to look at my feet then. It made me feel sick, thinking of you as anything less that a monster.

“I don’t want to go.” I mumbled.

You frowned at me, that happy, free look gone from your face. “Why not? I thought you wanted to go somewhere else? I thought you might be getting bored of being here.”

“I don’t want to go with you. Not with all that stuff you have in the back.” If you get lost, stay where you are. Someone will find you eventually. That’s what they thought us in school.

“I want to go.”

“Well you go then!”

You laughed, the sound short and sharp, “Oh no, I want your beautiful face where I can see it. Get in.” I didn’t move. You tapped the side of the car, “Are you still worried that I’m going to hurt you? I thought you understood me now… I’m not going to do anything to you, definitely not going to hurt you. Whatever you think of me, your body is yours so it’s your choice what you do with it.”

“You wouldn’t let me kill myself.”

You looked down at me incredulously, “that was different. You were scared, you weren’t thinking straight.”

“Because you drugged me!”

“I had to,” you said softly, frowning up at the sun as if it had personally offended you. “I really am sorry though. I didn’t… realise that all of this would be so hard.”

I almost asked you what you meant by ‘all of this’. Did you mean that you thought abducting me would be an easy task? Did you think that I would thank you for taking me away?

“I don’t want to go.” I repeated, then looked around at my surroundings. I spotted the outhouse, the room where I had thought you were going to kill me, and said, “I want to paint. I haven’t done it for a long time.”

You looked like you were debating it. This was the first time I’d really asked you for something, I’m not sure that you would have passed up the chance to grant me whatever I wanted in that moment. You nodded, “okay, if that’s what you want. You can paint while I write.”

You seemed determined to spend the day with me, so I didn’t try and argue for alone time. You wouldn’t have said yes. You would have said that I get enough alone time as it is.

“Do you know how long I’ve been here for?” I asked while we walked into the outhouse. You started pulling things off of shelves, setting up art supplies as you had no doubt seen me doing so many times.

“I have a rough idea.”

“I think I’ve been here for thirty two days, but I’m not even sure. Time just blends into itself here.”

You grinned widely at me, and I instantly wished that I hadn’t said so much. I didn’t want to say anything that would make you even remotely happy. In fact, I wanted the exact opposite. “Well, we should celebrate later then!”

I ignored you again. Instead, I looked at the paint that you had set up for me. It was the same kind that I liked to use at home when I could afford it. I hadn’t painted in approximately forty two days. I had drawn those awful sketches of my friends and family, but my hands itched for the paintbrush that you were holding out for me. I mumbled my thanks as I took it from you, then stared at the blank canvas before me.

I painted Jehan. He had asked me to paint him a few weeks before you took me, and I had been putting it off and off because I couldn’t think of which picture I should try to replicate. I put the brush down, and picked up the pencil that was laying near by on the floor. And then I lost myself in my drawing. It could have been hours, or it could have been days. Time became irrelevant to me then. I painted Jehan as I remembered him, smiling widely as his glasses slipped slightly down his ski slope of a nose. I drew his strawberry blond hair pulled back into a long, complicated braid. I drew a poetry book in his hands, and I drew him sat in a field of flowers.

And then I started to paint, and my picture came alive. All those details that I hadn’t been able to remember about Jehan were there on my canvas. The exact colour of his eyes, which took me ten minutes of mixing three different paints to create. The sheen to his hair and the shape of his glasses. I have never been so proud of a painting in my entire life, and it broke my heart that he would never be able to see it.

“That’s beautiful.” You said from behind, startling me. It still shocked me how silent you could be.

“I miss him a lot.” I confessed, looking at the picture longingly. I suppose you don’t know how Jehan and I met, since you weren’t watching me back then. He was my neighbour, and our mothers liked to push us together; he was a sickly child, and my mother was concerned with keeping me close and safe. So when we were children, we would spend time in my playroom, or Jehan’s bedroom, where our mothers could watch over us carefully. There isn’t a time in my life that I don’t remember Jehan being there too, right up until you took me. He’s like my brother, exactly what I would imagine having a twin is like. And you took me away from that.

“Come outside, I have something to show you.” I didn’t want to see whatever it was, but I couldn’t stare at that painting of Jehan anymore. You’d spread a picnic out to the right of the house, where the building was casting a shadow. You walked over to it enthusiastically, and pulled me down on the other side of the blanket. There was a bottle of wine slotted into the sand, and you grabbed it up and poured us each a glass.

“I was saving this for something good.”

“So why now?”

“It’s your thirty-second day! That’s special, that’s just over a month. You must think so too, or you wouldn’t have said anything about it.”

That wasn’t why I had said it, but you wouldn’t have believed me even if I tried to tell you that. Most of the time it felt like you thought you knew me better than I knew myself. I looked down at the glass in my hand, “have you put something in this?”

“I won’t do that again.”

The glass was warm in my hand, the drink within it even warmed. Everything was warm there. You sipped at yours while I stared down at mine. My parents kept their alcohol locked away in a liquor cabinet, too expensive to risk their teenager dipping into. Instead I’d get drunk on Jehan’s alcohol.

“If you’re trying to impress me with a picnic, it won’t work.

“I know,” you said gravely and knocked back the rest of your wine. “I will you ever give me a break?”

“If you give me the keys to your car I’ll think the world of you.”

“No chance,” You laughed, then turned very serious. “You’d only get lost and die.”

“Try me.”

“Maybe.” You looked at me curiously. “Maybe next week.”

**

“I have seen you before, haven’t I? After I was ten.” There were a lot of half remembered things in my head; vague images of seeing you around the neighbourhood, in the park… and somewhere more specific that I couldn’t place. "Why do I recognise you?"

"Probably because I followed you for a long time." 

“That’s creepy.” You shrugged, unfazed by my accusations. I pressed on anyway. “But I recognise you too. And that’s creepier. Why?”

“I lived nearby.” You offered.

“Yes, but something else too… the moment I saw you by the Seine, I knew that I’d seen you before.” I was trying to think about it so much it hurt my brain. “Did you work at the park or something?”

You nodded, seemingly impressed. “I lived there, remember? I was a prisoner of war.” You stopped laughing when I just sat and stared at you. “But I worked there too, after I met you, when I realised that I had to get my act together. I didn’t do much, just maintenance. You were there with your friends a lot.” 

I thought back to the park, with the Seine rushing through the centre. There were thick bushes that were perfect for smoking out of sight. We always used to get drunk in a small cove of bushes. But I couldn’t remember you in it. Or could I? “You had short hair then?”

You nodded, smiling widely. And then it came back: the quiet skinny boy, always working a little father away but always in sight, hair cropped tight to his skull. The boy who always looked consumed by his work. “We used to talk about you. Courfeyrac used to say that you were good looking.”

What would Courfeyrac say now if he knew that you were the one who had taken me? You laughed a little and leaned in closer, “But what matters to me is what you said. You were the one that I was watching after all.”

I blushed, most likely a deep, hideous shade of red that I should be mortified about. "That's just weird, you watching me like that." 

"Not always. Sometimes it was good."

The blush disappeared in an instant, and instead I was overwhelmed by that sickness again. I always felt sick when I thought about what you'd done to me. I wanted to know about what you'd seen me do in that park over the years, I had certainly done some stupid things, but at the same time, I didn't want to know. I definitely wasn't going to ask. So instead, I thought about the park. It used to be a place for me and my parents to go for family time, whenever the weather was nice, but I was younger then. Had you seen us all there? Were they your memories too? I looked back at you; you were staring at me, waiting for me to say something but I couldn't.

You must have been there to see when Thierry started following us around, never quite joining in but never away from us either. Were you there that night? A warmish summer night, almost two years ago? Thierry had been there that night, sitting at the edge of our group. We were drinking some weird concoction that was the result of mixing everyone's alcohol together. One by one, my friends left until there was no one around but me and Thierry. I stumbled drunk through the park, tricky in the darkness. 

Thierry followed. I didn't see him for a long time, but I could hear his footsteps behind me. I turned to see if it was Jehan, but it was him. He was looking at me with the nastiest look, as if he had been waiting all those months just to get me alone. The fact that I was drunk was probably just an added bonus. 

Back then it didn't take much to get me drunk, so it felt as though the world was spinning around me. I turned back to the path and carried on walking, but I didn't notice for a while that I had taken a wrong turn, probably because Thierry wouldn't stop talking to me. I could hear him laughing, but I couldn't tell what he was talking about. I just kept on walking, until I got to a secluded part of the park that I didn't know and I was lost. 

"Where are you going? It's still early, come on." Thierry called out from behind me, still hot on my trail. 

"You know I don't want to go out with you, just leave me alone." 

"I don't want to." 

And that's when it happened. There were two people standing in front of me rather than just one. There was Thierry, and then there was someone in a dark hoodie, the hood pulled up tight over his eyes. He pushed Thierry away from me and the said something in his ear, low and dangerous. I thought it might have been one of his weird friends, trying to freak me out, but I didn't stay to find out. I bolted from the park and I didn't stop until the front door was locked behind me.

"You were the guy in the hoodie, weren't you?" I asked, everything suddenly making sense. "Is that why he left me alone? What did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything." Your eyes flashed, letting me know that you knew exactly what I was talking about. 

"He never spoke to me again after that." 

"I know he didn't." 

I squinted and leaned in further. I could see beads of sweat on your forehead. "Do you think that you saved me from him?"

"Well aren't you glad that I was there?" You countered. Clearly, you did. And perhaps you had. Who knows what Thierry would have done if you hadn't been there. You smiled, "but in case you were wondering, that night was the night that I knew I wanted you. The moment when I knew that I had to bring you here. Not when you were ten, but that night. After that, I worked harder to make sure that I could rescue you as quickly as possible."


	8. Chapter 8

"Don't you ever miss Paris?" We were out in the sun. My arms were getting darker by the minutes, darker than they ever had been before. They almost blended into the dirt. I looked at you, one eye squinted against the sun. You had your eyes closed, and for a moment I wondered if you had heard me at all. "Don't you ever miss your parents? I bet they miss you." 

"No, they don't." You mumble after a long gap of silence. "They tell people that I'm dead. I think they with that I were. Maybe I am to them. Even if I ever went back, which I never will, they wouldn't want me there. They made that very clear, believe me."

"Why, what happened?" I could feel an ant crawling across my fingers, creeping its way across my skin. I didn't bother brushing it away the way I would have done at home. In the weeks I had spent out there, I'd become used to bugs crawling on my skin, I barely even noticed it in the end. I wondered if I would feel that way about you eventually. Would we spend so much time together that I would no longer be disgusted by your obsession with me?"

"Nothing happened. They just never wanted me, I told you that. I came out here when my uncle died but I never intended to stay. I was going to go back to Paris and study journalism. I wanted to do something where I could try to make a difference. I just wanted to help people, and I thought y'know, maybe I could be the kind of writer that exposed the truth. But my parents weren't having any of it. They said it was despicable, and if I wanted to use their money to get an education, I'd study law. But that wasn't me. They said that if I didn't then they wanted nothing more to do with me. So, rather than risk a scandal and tell their friends the truth, they played the grieving parents and told their friends that I'd been in a car accident. That way, it was like I'd never existed, and they finally got their wish."

**

You made your first mistake that night. Usually, you locked my bedroom window before you went to bed but that night you forgot. And of course I noticed. Perhaps it was because you thought I was warming to you, maybe you were starting to trust me. 

I waited until I was sure that you were asleep before I tried anything. But as soon as I heard perfect silence throughout the house, I grabbed a sweatshirt, put it and and then eased the window open. It was only a short drop to the ground, and then I set off running. I wanted to put as much distance between myself and the house as possible. Rest could wait until later. I ran for a long time, longer than I ever had before, until my lungs burnt and ached. But even then I didn't stop. I couldn't. For all I knew, you already knew that I was gone and were coming after me. I allowed myself to slow only to a walk. 

I had no idea where I was going. Towards society or even further away from it. It didn't matter. This was my one last chance at escape. There was nothing but wide open space around me. I was out there... without you. Free after all those days as a captive. 

It got harder to walk as the sun rose and the heat bore down on me. I realised my biggest mistake as my mouth turned to sandpaper, desparate for some sort of fluid. I should have brought water and rationed it as I walked. I had only thought far enough ahead to remember to grab a sweatshirt, and even that was gone now. As soon as it got too hot for it, I dropped it in the sand, convinced that I'd be safe before the cold next came around.

My shirt was soaked through with sweat, so I peeled it off and left that in the sand too. It was too hot to think, too hot to breathe. I was exhausted; I hadn't slept the night before. I had simply devised my plan and put it into action. It wasn't well thought out. I found a tree and sat down in the shade of it, too tired to carry on. My last thought before I fell asleep was that if I died out there, no one would ever know. Not even you. 

The moon was out again when I woke up. I no longer felt tired, but I was freezing and dehydrated. I regretted leaving my sweatshirt behind. I wondered what you were doing, if you were looking for me, if you knew where I was going. I told myself to get up and carry on, determinefd not to die out there in an Australia desert. 

So I did. I got up and walked, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, until my thighs aches and I wanted to give up and die. But I wouldn't let myself. I carried on until the sun was in the sky again. I cried as I walked. There was nothing. I hadn't even seen a tree in so long. Everything was empty and hopeless. I needed something to drink. I couldn't hold out forever. There was only so much my body could take before it decided that enough was enough. 

I ripped off my shorts and shoes, convinced that the extra weight of them on my skin was holding me back. I stumbled, and fell face first in the sand. I couldn't get up. I crawled on all fours. I made it a few feet on my hands and knees until my arms gave out and I collapsed into the sand. I turned over and faced the sky, then closed my eyes. My skin was burning to a crisp.

I laid there, half covered in sand, and knew that it was only a matter of hours, if that, until I finally died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really short and sucky, I'm sorry


	9. Chapter 9

When I woke again, it was cool. Too cool for it still to be day, but not cold enough for it to be night yet. I opened my eyes. Cold cloths soaking with water were covering my body. A flannel was flat on my forehead, sending little drops of water down my cheeks as if I were crying. I wanted to lick them up and satisfy the dryness in my mouth. I turned a little, trying to assess the situation, but one of the cloths slid off of my arm, revealing how badly burnt my skin was. It was red and blotchy, blistered in places. Without the cloth there to cool it, my arm went hot and stung. Your hand reached across and gently laid the cloth back on my arm.

“Thank you,” I whispered. It hurt to talk. You just nodded and rested your head on the side of the bed, a few inches from my arm.

And then I slept again.

The next time you noticed that I was awake, you grabbed up a cup of water and held it to my lips, “drink, please, Grantaire you have to. Your body needs it to recover.”

The water was hot and hurt my throat, but I lapped it down eagerly. The water felt heavy in my stomach. I couldn’t remember how I got back here. I’d been escaping. My body didn’t want to go on anymore, it was too tired. But then?

You’d been there. I’d felt your arms scoop me up and it hurt my burnt skin as you cradled me against you. I could feel your breath on my neck as you talked, your hand on my forehead, but I couldn’t hear you. You’d lifted me up so gently, as if I were a piece of glass threatening to shatter. In that moment I suppose I was. You’d carried me somewhere and I’d curled into your arms, tiny as a stone. You soaked my body with water. And then, after that, I remember nothing. Just blackness.

I looked down at my body. My skin was red and shiny, peeling worse than it ever had done before. Blisters littered my body.

“How long have I been here?” I asked. My voice was hoarse and strained.

“A day or so. You won’t be fully healed for a few more days. You were severely burnt and so dehydrated I’m surprised that you’re even alive right now. You’re very lucky I found you when I did.”

To my surprise, I did feel lucky. “How did you?”

“It wasn’t easy,” you confessed. You leaned your elbows on the corner mattress and rested your chin on them. You were too close to me, but it was too painful to move any further away. “I drove around for a while, kept an eye out. Almost didn’t spot you at all. But you’ll start to feel better soon. I don’t think you’ll even get any scars. You were headed back towards me when I found you.”

My heart sank, “towards?”

You nodded, “I figured you’d just come to your senses and you were coming home.”

“Home?”

“Yeah,” you smiled gently. “Back to me.” 

**

I did start to feel better pretty quickly. I binged on water, never satisfied with how much I had drunk. After being so thirsty out there in the desert, no amount of water ever felt like enough. I counted the days that I had been with you. I could never be sure, but I had a feeling that we were reaching the forty mark, possibly a little over it already.

I stared out my window, scanning the horizon endlessly. I had always kept hold of a small seed of hope. I had nurtured it and kept it alive, but after that all hopes of escape were dead to me. I would never escape you. My life would only be sand, heat, and you from then on. No more parents or friends. No more Paris. Only you.

Perhaps I could wear you down in the end. Maybe then you’d take me back home. Hadn’t there been cases of kidnapped kids walking free, years later? There had been rescues too. But how much longer would it take? How much longer could I stand to be there with you?

I wondered if my disappearance was making the news. I felt like I was disappearing. How could anyone still be interested? Papers always dropped stories when there wasn’t anything new to report. What could be new about my story, when the only thing that ever changed was the way the wind blew?

I had been in your house for almost two months. Was anyone still searching for me? How dedicated were my parents, anyway? They were always shrewd. My Dad liked to say that he had good business sense. Maybe he was asking the question… was looking for me good business sense anymore? I don’t think I would have put any money into my search. I wondered if I was presumed dead.

You were nice to me after my failed escape attempt. Really nice. You fussed over me like a first time mother would fuss over her new born, a way that my own mother wouldn’t have dreamed of. You kept the cold cloths coming and laid them on my skin with so much care. But you watched me carefully too, and constantly. It was as if you were trying to work out what you could say or do without upsetting me too much. As soon as I figured that out, I started testing how far I could push you. You just let me push.

“You must really hate me.” I said one day when we were sat out on the porch.

I could almost feel your frown as you turned to face me, “what on earth are you talking about.”

“You must hate me so much that you don’t care if I die,” I continued without looking at you. I was just trying to make you angry; there wasn’t one part of me that thought you hated me. “Otherwise, you’d let me go.”

You stood up so that you were in front of me, so that I had no option but to look at you. Your face was hot and angry; angry that I’d think that of you, “that is the exact opposite of how I feel.”

“If you genuinely didn’t hate me, you’d let me go. You know it’s what I want. You’d take me back to a town and let me go back to my family but you won’t. You could let me go if you wanted to, you just don’t want to, so that means you must hate me.”

“Don’t start this again,” you sighed. “Things really aren’t that simple, please believe me.”

I shrugged, “they can be.”

You kneeled down in front of me. You looked exhausted, as if you were twenty years older and had been fighting every single day. “Just give this place a bit of time, please, Grantaire. In a few months, you’ll learn to appreciate this whole thing. Then…”

“Then, what? Then you’ll let me go? I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me, please. Just for once believe me.”

“What will you do?”

Your body sagged, as if you were giving up on yourself. “Okay. Just… give me six months. That’s all you need, and then if you still hate me, if you still hate all of this, then I’ll take you back. I promise.” You looked up at me with wide eyes. You looked like a dog, waiting for me to throw you a bone. Waiting for something I could never give you. “I love you.”

You waited for what you’d said to soak in, but it didn’t. I didn’t even think about it. “You’re a bastard.”

“I want you here.” You whispered. “Don’t you care about that at all?”

I stood up, suddenly angrier than I had ever been before. You stood up too, and I tried to make myself look taller, more intimidating. My head didn’t even make it past your shoulders. “Do you think that after everything you’ve done, there is even one part of me that could care about you? Are you really that crazy?”

I was yelling at you, but you didn’t flinch. “I need you.”

“You need help.” I spat. “This is all so messed up. You’re messed up. And as long as you keep me here, I’m never going to get away from you. Not unless you take me back.”

“But I don’t want that.”

“Well, too bad!” I yelled, almost hysterical. “You don’t get to choose, you don’t own me! It’s what I want!”

You flinched away from my words as if I had raised my fist against you. You avoided my gaze, clearly embarrassed by your reaction. I turned and walked away. I was fragile then, almost in as many pieces as you were. I didn’t want to see you. You didn’t follow me either, just stayed there, staring at the space where I had been stood moments before. I could almost handle you when you were tough and strong in your convictions; I knew what to expect. But that broken form of you? I didn’t know what to expect and it frightened me.

**

You were quiet that night. Incredibly thoughtful. You soaked cloths for my burns as usual, but then you went to the window and stared out at the darkness. I cleared the table and went to put the plates in the sink, but you grabbed my wrist before I could reach, almost making me drop them both.

“I meant it, you know. About taking you back. If you give this place six months, I’ll take you back. Please. Can you wait that long?”

I stepped back, tugging my wrist away from you. I left the plates on the side. Your forehead was creased, as if this were the hardest thing you had ever had to live through. There was that familiar intensity about you, the seriousness that I had come to know. I could believe you. I cocked my head, “three months, I’ve already been here nearly two.”

“Four,” More sadness swam into your eyes. “Just please don’t try to escape again. Not by yourself, not unless I go with you. You don’t know this place yet, it’s too dangerous. Right now, you need me.”

“I know.”

You stared at me, surprised by the two words. But I did need you, didn’t I? I’d tried escaping by myself and it hasn’t worked. I wasn’t stupid enough to try it again. You sighed and turned back to the window, “after four months, if you still want to go, I’ll take you to a town. Just don’t make me go in with you, please.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” I said quickly. As if I could make you do anything you didn’t want to. “I don’t have to turn you in, you know. I won’t. If that’s what you’re worried about. You can just let me go and then you can disappear, back into the desert. I can say I don’t remember, that I’ve got heatstroke or amnesia or something. I won’t even remember your name.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet mine, but they were filled up with sadness, ready to leak out. You shook your head slightly, “you still don’t know me at all.”

You went to your room before me that night. You’d been so quiet, disillusioned by me, I think. This whole adventure of yours wasn’t going as you had planned it and it upset you. Were you beginning to regret it? Perhaps I was just as much of a disappointment to you as I was everyone else. I thought about it for a long time, frustrated that the thoughts were keeping me awake. Why should I care if I disappointed you?

And then I heard you scream. The sound took the silence and shattered it. I leapt up out of bed. The sound was so desperate, as though it came from somewhere deep within. It was the loudest thing I’d heard for weeks. My heart pounded in my chest. I thought about the possibilities; maybe someone was in the house. Someone had come to rescue me, and was getting rid of you first. Maybe you’d both put up a fight, and you lost. Maybe they had a knife in your back. But that was a stupid thought, and a foolish thing for me to consider. No one would rescue a person like that, not even in the worst horror movie around. In real life, rescuers came in cars, or by helicopters. We would have heard them from miles away, but I couldn’t hear anything other than the sound of your screams.

You were yelling words, as if you were arguing with somebody, but I couldn’t tell what you were saying. You were crying too. I walked to the door slowly, hesitant outside your room. When you screamed again, I pushed the door open. And then there was silence; it made my ears ring. Then I heard you sobbing, the desperate way a kid sobs when they lose their parents in a shop.

“Enjolras?” You kept sobbing. I took a step towards you. Your eyes were closed, scrunched up. “Enjolras, are you awake?”

Whatever you were screaming about, you’d been screaming in your sleep. You were sobbing like I had when I’d first arrived, as if you’d never stop. It was weird, because I’d never seen you like this before. It almost made me want to start crying too. But I didn’t. You curled in on yourself, and then you started screaming again. The sound hurt my ears. I stepped towards you, grabbed you and shook you to make you stop.

Your eyes snapped open but you didn’t see me. I thought for a moment you might hit me, but you recoiled and shrunk against the wall. You were crazed. “It’s me, you’re okay. You’re just dreaming.”

You crawled forwards and clawed at my t-shirt, still sobbing. You grabbed my waist and threw your arms around it. I touched your hair, raked my fingers through your curls before I could even think about what I was doing. We stayed like that until you stopped crying and whispered, “I don’t know where I am.”

“You’re here, in the desert. It’s just you and me.”

You looked up at me, and saw me properly for the first time since you woke up. You knew who I was that time, and it made you relax. “Grantaire. Thank you.”

“All I did was wake you up.”

“Thank you.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Are you hungry?” You asked. I shook my head, but didn’t look up at you. I hadn’t been able to look at you properly all day. Something about you having that nightmare made me change the way I thought about you. You were less of a monster, more of a scared boy who didn’t want to be alone. And I hated it. I didn’t want to have compassion for you, or understanding. All I wanted to do was hate you, but I couldn’t anymore.

 

We hadn’t talked about it. I still don’t know what it was that you were dreaming about. I was afraid that if we talked about it, if I knew what troubled you, I’d comfort you again. I was more afraid that I’d forget myself and confess how nice it had felt to run my fingers through your hair. Some small part of me liked having your arms around my waist. I shook my head, not wanting to admit it. But it was true, wasn’t it? A part of me was starting to accept you. I wondered, if I gave in to the part, where it would lead.

 

“I just want to sit for a while and think,” I said. “Out here.”

 

“Alone?” You handed me the sweatshirt you’d had tied around your waist all day. I just stared at it for a moment.

 

“Yeah, I think so.”

 

“I’ll get you a blanket.” And with that, you padded off towards the house. I watched you as you disappeared into the darkness. Without you sat beside me, as you had been all day, I could feel the sudden chill. I put on your sweatshirt and wrapped myself in it. The sand was still warm so I buried my hands underneath the top layers and let the grains give me their heat. I looked up at the sky; there were so many stars out, more than there ever were in Paris, where pollution had clouded the atmosphere. I wanted to paint them, but I didn’t want to look away from them either.

 

You wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, another tucked tightly around your own. You were looking down at me, as if you were desperate to stay. “Got everything you need?”

 

I nodded. You turned towards the house, but hesitated before you took a step. You wanted to stay with me, to sit with me. You waited for me to say something, wanted me to say something. I gave in. It felt better to have you next to me than in the house. “What do you see up there?”

 

You smiled as if all your Christmases had just come at once. “I can see whatever I want.”

 

“Do you know the patterns?”

 

“The constellations? Sure.” You looked up fondly. “But I can see my own patterns too. I can see whatever I want.”

 

“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly intrigued.

 

You sat down next to me quickly, as if you almost thought I might change my mind about talking to you if you waited too long. “I can trace people’s faces up there, the lay of the land… anything, really. If you look for long enough, you can see anything that you want to see.”

 

We were silent as we sat there, but for once, not uncomfortable. I didn’t mind you sitting next to me. I was waiting for you to say something that might repulse me and make me hate you all over again, but in the back of my mind I knew that things had been changing between us for a while, and your nightmare was the thing that flipped the switch. You were human to me for the first time in forever, and sat right there it felt as if we were the only two people left in the world. There were no car horns, no trains, no planes, no alarms. Nothing human. If you’d told me at that moment that you’d saved me from a nuclear holocaust, I probably would have believed you.

 

You lay back into the sand, face up to the stars. You were so quiet and so still for so long I thought you might have fallen asleep. I prodded you in the side. You propped yourself up on your elbows, “do you want me to leave?”

 

Your face was so close to mine that if I leaned across just a little, we could kiss. You looked like you wanted to. For a moment I almost started to close my eyes, to lean over. You put your hand on my cheek. What was I thinking? I turned back to the stars.

 

“I just want to sit here.” I said. “You can do whatever you like.”

 

“Well, I want to stay.” You said decisively, as if you would have done anything else. For the first time I wasn’t cursing you or asking for you to take me home, I was just sitting there beside you, talking to you about the things Jehan and I might discuss.

 

“You can’t see the stars in Paris. It’s like they’re not even there.”

 

You lay back down in the sand, “maybe not, that’s the problem with cities. But the stars are always there, behind the clouds and the lights.”

 

We sat there for a long time. It started to get colder and darker, but I didn’t want to move. You asked if I wanted you to make a fire, and part of me did. But the bigger part didn’t want to risk ruining the stars. You pointed to them, trying to make me see the same pictures you could, but all I saw were stars.

 

At some point, as I often did, I started thinking about home. Remembering what I’d left behind. I thought about the route I took to school, and how Jehan would wait outside for me on the hood of his yellow mini. I clasped my arms around my knees as I thought about what might be going on. Jehan and Courfeyrac would be going back to college now, if they hadn’t already. Feuilly probably would have found a job. Summer would be over. The leaves would be fading from green to brown. Did they miss me? Would Courfeyrac be collecting notes for me in hopes that my time away would have changed my mind about college? Or had they given up on me all together? I bit the insides of my cheeks but it was useless; tears were already on my cheeks.

 

You sat up and shuffled closer to me, and pressed your hand against the nape of my neck. It was warm and comforting and everything I didn’t want it to be. You pulled me towards you. It was gentle and soft and I fell into you like I was meant to. You wrapped your arms and the blankets around me, cocooning me in safety and warmth.

 

“I’m very sorry,” You said quietly. “I didn’t mean to upset you again.”

 

You kissed my hair but I didn’t move. I thought carefully about what I wanted to say, “if we were back in Paris, way back before any of this happened, knowing me as you do now, would you still steal me?”

 

You were silent for a long time, giving it real consideration, “Yes. I can never let you go.”

 

You wrapped the blankets around me tighter and leant back into the sand, bringing me with you this time. I didn’t have the energy to fight you any more. I didn’t even want to. You were so warm, so comforting. You leant into the sand, and I stayed with my head against you, my cheekbone against your chest. You cradled me with one arm and stroked my hair with the other. And you talked, about things that fascinated me. I shut my eyes and let your voice lull me. I felt your lips again, fluttering against my forehead.

 

And we slept there like that, all night.


	11. Chapter 11

Dawn woke me. I felt the lack of your heat beside me before I opened my eyes and found you gone. I missed it. I stretched my hand out along the sand; the place where you’d been lying was still warm. I didn’t think you’d been gone long. I pulled the blankets tight around my shoulders, trapping in my body heat. I felt groggy and sick, like I needed more time to sleep. I couldn’t go back to sleep though; the light of the morning was too bright.

It was still too early for it to be warm, so I rubbed my hands up and down my arms. I didn’t want to go back to the house; I wanted you to hold me again. To keep me warm as you had done the night before. My eyes roamed across the horizon, searching for you.

I was being stupid. I did, but I didn’t, want to be near you. It didn’t make sense to me. But I wanted to find you, and going back into the house was my best chance at that. Chilly as it was, the sand that had slipped down the back of my shirt was more annoying. I stripped it off as I walked back towards the house, left it handing over the banister on the porch to try and air out all of the grains of sand.

I stretched my arms out over my head as I stood in the kitchen, trying to stretch my back out, my eyes focused out of the window on the horizon. Could we really have been asleep out there all night? My back felt sore and ached all over, as if to prove that we had.

“Grantaire?” Your voice startled me so much I almost fell over. You were standing a little way away from me, your arms outstretched as if you were waiting for me to hug you, allow myself to be held close to you the way I had the night before. I wanted to walk towards you, but something in your eyes held me back. You frowned at me, “what’s wrong with your back?”

I frowned right back at you, “it just aches a little, why?”

“You’ve got a rash.” You walked over to me slowly, then gently ran your fingers over the skin on my back. It felt a little more tender than usual, but nothing extreme. “It might just be a heat rash, but we should keep an eye on it anyway.”

“Okay.” I craned my neck, trying to get a glimpse but I couldn’t see anything.

“Do you feel okay?”

I thought about it. There was a slight throbbing in my head, my neck, back and arms were aching, and I felt like I could do with another five hours of sleep. I told you as much. “A bit weird, little maybe I’m getting a cold. I think I might just go back to bed for a while, it’ll probably all be gone by then.”

You looked worried, which I thought was incredibly stupid because it was probably just the consequence of sleeping on the ground all night. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Yes. “You can do whatever you want.”

I still wasn’t prepared to accept or admit that I wanted you anywhere near me. You followed me to my room; I slipped beneath the covers and pulled them tight against me to trap out the chill, and you laid down next to me, on top of the covers. You wrapped an arm around my waist, and I once again found myself glad of your heat. I didn’t think much more about it though; I was asleep again almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I woke up again when the sun was in the middle of the sky. I could see it through my window. The rays were too bright and piercing. My head was no longer throbbing gently; the pain had intensified so much while I had been asleep that I felt as though someone was drilling right through my brain. It hurt so much that I could have screamed. I was going to be sick. You weren’t in the room with me anymore, but I didn’t notice that until I stumbled past you in the hallway on my way to the bathroom.

You looked at me with concern, then slid one arm around my waist to help me walk, “are you okay?”

“I’m going to be sick.” I informed you. We only just made it to the bathroom on time. I threw up until there was nothing left in my stomach, and even then I still felt queasy. I leant my head against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, shivering violently against the chill that had overcome me. You were talking to me, but I was already asleep again.

I can only remember fragments of what happened after that. I remember you shaking me awake, only for me to fall asleep again within three minutes. I can remember waking up a few times after that, being sick once more, and I remember worrying that I was going to die.

“You’re too hot,” you told me, the back of your hand pressed against my forehead. You gnawed at your lower lip in concern. You felt very far away, even though I could tell you were right in front of me. “I’m going to have to move you, okay?”

“Where?” I groaned. I didn’t want to move. There wasn’t one part of me that didn’t ache, and the pain in my head hadn’t subsided at all. Even the thought of moving made my pain increase.

“You’re getting worse, a lot worse. I need to take you to a town so you can go to a hospital. Even if we leave now we’ll have to drive through the night, and I don’t fancy waiting around any longer. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but staying here doesn’t seem to be making you any better.”

“Why would you do that?” I whispered. “I thought you didn’t want to let me go.”

“I don’t, of course.” Your voice cracked and you ran a stressed hand through your hair. “But I’ve been watching you all day and you’re so sick I don’t know what to do. You were fine yesterday, how could this have all happened in one day? I’d rather let you go than lose you all together.”

It was decided. We were going to a town. Walking to the car wasn’t an option. There was no strength in me to put one foot in front of the other. You carried me out to the car and placed me gently in the front seat. “Stay awake, promise me you’ll try to stay awake.”

I tried. I didn’t fall back to sleep, but I was never quite conscious either. I was aware of the car moving around me, of you commanding me to open my eyes, but I wasn’t asleep, I just wasn’t awake either. I was walking by the Seine. Jehan and Feuilly were walking the other way, coming towards me. I tried to run towards them, but my legs didn’t want to go any faster than they already were. I tried to call out to my friends, to get them to notice me and come to me, but no sound came out of my mouth. 

“Hang in there.” You said. I opened my eyes. It was difficult. After a time, my eyes slid closed again. I could feel myself sinking down into the seat. My limbs felt stiff and hard. Something was shaking. You were shaking me. “Grantaire, we’re almost there.”

My brain could hear you, but my body wouldn’t respond. I tried to open my eyes again, but my eyelids felt heavy and weighed down. Nothing worked. I was going to die. I could hear you pleading with me, saying “wake up please,” over and over again. I kept trying. I tensed my face up, strained the muscle in my forehead. I slid my eyes open, just a slither, but it was all I needed. I saw you; you had one hand on the wheel, the other was holding my own hand. We were driving so fast that your wheels kicked up so much sand.

I could see a town in the distance. The closer we got, the smoother the ground became until it felt like we were flying above the sand. I blinked and forced my eyes to stay open. This was the moment I had been dreaming about for weeks; the first glimpse of life outside your desert home. But right then, it didn’t feel real. It felt like a torturing dream brought on by the fever. Buildings, telegraph poles… everything looked like I had dreamt it up.

You skidded to a halt outside a large building. It got harder to breathe. My eyes started to shut. Every breath was more difficult that the last. You leapt out of the car, not bothering to turn it off, and started yelling something towards the building. Were there other people there too? Everything was slow and quiet around me. My body was shutting down, letting me know that it had had enough. Nothing felt real; everything just felt like a dream.

I heard another voice yelling too, and then the door opened and you were lifting me out of the car. Something pressed against my nose and mouth, giving off an awful clinical smell. But it helped me breathe a little better. You were still carrying me, but I couldn’t really feel you. Only your hand clasped tight around my upper arm.

You took me into a room, laid me down on a table but kept a hold on my hand. A man stood over me; I could see him when he pulled open my eyelids to check my pupils. He said something to me, but I couldn’t hear him. I was falling back to sleep again already. A mask went over my face, and I could breathe again.

Then we were driving fast again, but not in your car. People surrounded us when you lifted me out of the car again. There was another sound too, much louder than everything I had become accustomed too. Mechanical thunder. It sounded like a plane.

“Name? Age?” I heard a lady’s voice, again from a long way away, like I was underwater. I forced my eyes open again; we were on a plane. You were looking over your shoulder, glancing at the sand and emptiness. I grabbed your hand, using all my strength. That made you look at me. I didn’t want to be left alone. I locked my fingers around yours. You nodded and sat down next to me, started talking to me. You ran a hand through my hair; I don’t know what you were saying, but you looked like you might cry at any minute.

We started moving. The lady in white was back. She stuck things into my arm, made sure that the mask around my mouth was secure. I just kept watching you; you were the only thing that could keep my eyes open. Your eyes never left mine, not even for a second. Even when the plane landed, and someone pushed me out of it, your eyes remained focused on mine. You had to run beside me to keep up, but you were still holding my hand, your fingers tight around mine. The mask was gone, left behind on the plane. My lungs longed for its help.

Then we went into a building, and we stopped. A man in a suit was asking you questions, pushing you back. You were shouting, pointing at me. Then you really looked at me, and your eyes were desperate. You started to cry. I tired to speak, to tell you it was okay, but I couldn’t. You turned back to the man in the suit, yelled at him, then stepped up to my stretcher. You leant over me and kissed my forehead. “Goodbye, R. They’ll look after you now, you’ll be okay.”

I shook my head, used the last of my strength to grab you. My fingers found your elbow and tugged, pulling you down towards me. You came down so easily. I ran my fingers through your hair. Your face was so close to mine. I kissed your cheek.

Then you were gone. People were pulling you off of me, holding you back. I kept my eyes focused on you. You didn’t do anything; you just stood there, watching me, while the hospital staff badgered you with questions. You were the hunted one now. I wanted to lift my hand, to say thank you for letting me go. But I could only watch as I was wheeled further and further away from you.

Then I was in another room, another mask was placed over my mouth. Breathing was so easy again, but it didn’t matter. Consciousness was too difficult to hold onto to. I could hear voices in the distance, discussing me.

“He’s fading, bring him into intensive…”

And then, nothing.


	12. Chapter 12

A sharp, sterile smell. Stiff sheets against my skin, not like the ones back at your house. Wires plugged into my arms. Something annoying was beeping. I was cold, and my body was sore. I opened my eyes. I wasn’t at your house anymore; I was in a small room, with one big window looking out over a big city. You weren’t there, only me and another woman, who was fiddling with one of the needles in my arm.

“Where’s Enjolras?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Where’s Enjolras?” I repeated, a little firmer that time. As firm as I could in that condition.

She stopped fiddling with whatever was in my arm and sighed, then finally looked at me. When she spoke, her voice was soft, “you don’t have to worry about him anymore. He’s gone.”

I felt confused. I should have been happy, but I didn’t want you to go. “Gone where?”

The woman ignored me, and put her fingertips to my wrist to take my pulse. Had I been stronger, I would have dragged my arm away from her and demanded answers. She jotted down a number on a chart and said, “your parents are on their way.”

I slept.

When I woke again, I heard mum’s voice first. She was talking quickly, in a panicked tone, her voice echoing down the corridor towards me. “We left as soon as we possibly could. Where is he?”

I could hear her heels clicking quickly down the hall, getting closer to me. Dad was talking too, but more quietly, so I couldn’t hear what he was saying. There was a third voice; a doctor. He was explaining things to them that I didn’t even understand, “he’ll be in and out for some time. He’s been very lucky. With some meningitis cases, there are no warning signs.”

Then suddenly, everyone was in my room. Mum and Dad and a doctor. A policeman trailed in after them. Mum grabbed me as soon as she saw me, lifted me up to her chest and cradled me there. Dad was standing behind her, saying something too me. He was smiling too, his whole face lit up like a Christmas tree, which confused me because Dad never used to smile like that, especially not at me. Then everyone was talking, asking questions, and staring… I looked between the four people in my room. They were all talking, but I couldn’t take in their words.

I couldn’t speak to them. A part of me, the biggest part, was so glad to see them that it didn’t even feel real. I wanted to burst into tears and tell them how happy I was, but I couldn’t cry. Couldn’t even talk. I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t do anything. Mum was still crying against my shoulder, soaking the hospital gown I was in. She was mumbling, “Zacharie, it must have been so awful for you, but we’re here now. I promise you it will be alright. You don’t have to worry, you’re safe now.”

There was something so awkward about the words she said, as if she was trying to convince herself. I tried to smile at her, but it was too much effort and I was so tired. And there was a pain thudding through my forehead. The lights in that room were too bright, I had to close my eyes.

Mum came back by herself later on. She looked tired, and her eyes were red. She sat down on the corner of my bed and smiled, “we shouldn’t have all come in at once, it must have been overwhelming for you, after having seen no one for so long. No one except for…”

She couldn’t even say your name. Her face contorted in a mix and pain and hatred as she thought of you. I nodded, letting her know that I understood, and I really did because I had hated you once too, so she continued. “The doctors say that it might be hard for you to adapt back to your real life. I know I can’t expect you to…” She looked guilty, happy, and sad all in one. “I don’t even know what he’s done to you. You seem different than how you were. We were so worried, thinking that we might never…”

And then she was crying again. She grabbed at my hand and I let her take it. In a previous life I never would have let her. But she needed me now. Silence hung between us awkwardly. I didn’t know what to say to her anymore. Mum looked at me carefully, nervously, “the nurse said you were asking about him.”

“I was wondering where he was.”

“I know, it’s understandable. But you don’t have to wonder anymore, you don’t even have to think about him. He turned himself in at the hospital. All you need to do is give a statement, and then the police can charge him and we’ll be one step closer to getting that monster locked away. After all, that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

I shook my head. It wasn’t what I wanted at all. “He’s not a monster.”

She looked at me sharply, as if I had just cursed her out. “That man is evil, why else would he have taken you from us?”

“I don’t know” I whispered. What could I tell her? That you were lonely, scared, looking for someone to share your life with? There were no right words. I could tell her that you thought you were saving me, but that answer would never satisfy her. “But he’s not… he’s not that.”

Mum’s face went pale. She stared at me long and hard, her lips pinched and tight. Then she started crying again, “what did he do to you to make you believe that?”

***

The next day two police officers came. Only one of them could speak French, so he was the one who did all the talking. The other mumbled things to him, but I could barely understand a word he said. My parents stood at the back of the room and watched. Everyone was watching me. Assessing me.

“We know that this is hard for you,” the thin police man said. I couldn’t stand him. “Captives often go through a stage of silence and denial. Your parents say you’ve not been speaking much to anyone about what happened to you, and I don’t want to push you but…”

I stayed silent. What could I tell him? That you had stolen me right from under my parent’s noses after watching me for seven years, only for me to start caring about you? They would think I was crazy. But even as I stayed silent, he carried on speaking, “We’re holding a man in custody. He confessed to kidnapping you, we just need you to confirm.”

“Who is he?” I already knew that it was you.

“The accused is Tobias Enjolras. He’s six foot, three and a half inches in height, shoulder length blond hair, brown eyes. He’s twenty seven years of age…”

I blocked the rest of what he was saying out. I felt like I could have been sick.

The police kept coming back every day after that, and I still refused to tell them anything. They would ask me the same questions every day, only phrased a little differently. Did he give you drugs? Can you tell me about the man you met in Paris? Did he take you against your will?

There was only so much I could hold out on. In the end, I had to speak. They showed me photographs, some of you, some of me who looked like you. They wouldn’t let up, even when I sat there in silence. You were so easy to spot; you were the only man with any fire behind his eyes. The only man I could really look at. There was a cut under your eye in your mug shot. It hadn’t been there before. I almost asked if I could keep that picture.

It dragged on for days. Time was a blur of injections, tests, and interrogations. I had become public property. Anyone could ask me whatever question was going through their head; there were no limits. One detective asked me if we’d had sex.

“Did he force himself on you? Make you touch him?”

I shook my head. They didn’t know you at all. “Never.”

“Are you sure?”

I was never left alone. My parents hovered protectively. Doctors ran tests every day to see if I was getting better, treated me for shock. Psychologists came and tried to make me talk. They never left me alone, especially not the psychologists.

One day a woman sat in the chair next to my bed who reminded me of Jehan’s mum. I missed him a lot. My parents said he was going to fly over to see me as soon as they thought I was ready for more visitors. She introduced herself but I didn’t care to listen to her. It was getting towards the end of the day. The nurses would be bringing me food soon, and then I could go back to sleep. She kept talking to me; at one point I told her I didn’t want another psychologist hovering around me, and she just shrugged it off.

“Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is?” She asked. I did, but I didn’t say anything. She just stared at me, then wrote something down before continuing. “It’s where a victim emotionally bonds with their abuser. One theory is that it’s a survival mechanism. It’s easier to feel safe with a captor when you believe that you’re getting along. Or it can happen if you begin to feel sorry for your abuser. Perhaps he’s been wronged at some point in his life, and it makes you understand him. There could be other reasons to. You were isolated with him, there was no one else around. Perhaps you have to get on or you suffer tremendous boredom. Or perhaps he makes you feel special and loved.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” I snapped. I was tired and hungry and she was annoying me. “But that’s not how I feel. Stop pretending you know the half of it when you don’t.”

“I didn’t say I did. I was just wondering if you knew about it.” She looked at me carefully, her tone suggesting she had just been discussing something between old friends. I loathed her. “But whatever he did to you, whatever he said, you know he hasn’t done the right thing, don’t you? You need to understand that he did the wrong thing.”

“I know what Enjolras did was wrong,” I said quietly. I did know it, didn’t I? I knew that it was wrong to abduct someone and hold them in the desert against their will. But it was almost as if a part of me didn’t want to think that it was wrong. A part of me understood why you’d done it, too. It’s hard to hate someone once you begin to understand them.

She left after a while, but not before putting a pamphlet about Stockholm Syndrome down on my bedside table, along with her business card. She was crazy if she thought I was ever going to call her. 

**

Mum and Dad handled the reporters. They talked on the news while I hid away in my hospital room. I was grateful for that. I couldn’t have spoken in front of a camera. I watched one of their press conferences on the TV in my hospital room. They talked about how my kidnapper had done the right thing and had taken me to a hospital when I fell seriously ill, and had turned himself over then. When asked how I was doing, they told reporters that I was making a strong recovery from a bad case of meningitis and mentioned nothing about how hard I was finding being back in the normal world.

I started walking around the hospital. Everyone looked at me as I did; they all knew who I was. I had been plastered on the front pages of newspapers and across the six o’clock news. I was almost famous, and I hated it. I walked to the doors where I had last seen you, when I had been so sure that I was going to die. I stepped through them, out into the daylight. It was hot, not as hot as it had been out in the desert, but still hot. There were cars and people and birds and everything that I had missed while I had been captive.

“You haven’t been discharged.” A nurse said as she grabbed me and walked me back to my room. I wasn’t really supposed to be out of bed yet. I was supposed to be building up my strength.

Mum came in later with a plastic bag full of hundred of articles, all clipped from different newspapers. She told me that the case had been huge. The whole world knew about it. She said it like it was a good thing, but I was just embarrassed that everybody knew what had happened to me. “These are just the things that I’ve clipped since we came out here. There are more at home. I just thought that maybe you’d want to catch up, see how much people care.”

I pulled out a bundle of paper. The first thing I noticed was the photograph. The last school photo I had ever had taken had been blown up on the front cover of some Australian newspaper. My hair was shorter, as it had been when I was sixteen, and my school tie was crooked. I had hated that shot from the second I saw it. Why did newspapers always use school pictures when they report missing kids? I thought about you in your cell. Had you seen these articles too?

The stories were all the same. Zacharie Grantaire, the seventeen year old abducted from his home of Paris, has been admitted to a hospital in West Australia, taken there by his captor when he fell ill…

None of the articles interested me, until I found one that did. The headline read ‘is this the face of a monster?’ It was from yesterday. There was a drawing of you in the middle of the page. Your head was held high as you sat in a courtroom, your hands bound together in handcuffs. The article said it was your preliminary hearing, and had lasted no longer than seven minutes. You had only said two words the whole time: ‘Not guilty.’

“I know,” Mum shook her head, reading the article over my shoulder. “He must be insane if he think that’ll hold up. The police have witnesses who saw him take you from the park, video evidence from the airport, and you, of course. How can he even think to plead not guilty? It just proves he’s insane.”

“What else has he said?”

“Nothing, for now. We’ll have to wait until the trial. But the police think he’ll say you came of your own free will; that you wanted to be out there with him.” She stopped suddenly, wondering if she’d said something that might upset me. I could see in her eyes that she still wasn’t sure how affected I was by you.

I smiled, trying to be reassuring. “You’re right, that is insane.”

Mum started fussing then, tidying up the clippings around me before I’d finished reading them. “Would you like to go back to Paris soon? The doctors can transfer you to another hospital near home, or if you feel well enough you can just come home altogether. The trial will be held over there, since he’s a French citizen anyway. Maybe you’d like some time to sort out your thoughts, to be with your friends. I know I said that Jehan could fly over, but perhaps you’d like to just go back home instead.”

I nodded absently. “I just want it all to be over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for calling Enjolras, Tobias. I couldn't think of a better name hahaha


	13. Chapter 13

I was deemed well enough to fly back to Paris the following week. The trial would be in six weeks. Until then, the police would gather evidence against you, and I’d work on my statements. I could return to college if I wished to, but there was no pressure to go back since I hadn’t enrolled anyway. I had to carry on talking to shrinks. Mum made it all seem very straightforward when she told me.

“In a few months, life will get easier. You’ll see.” She smiled from her seat in front of me on the plane. She was very optimistic about putting this whole thing behind us, but it was easier for her. She hadn’t had to live it. I hadn’t found out much about you. You had already been transferred back to Paris, the place you hated, and were being held in a high security prison in a solitary cell. You weren’t allowed bail, not that you would have been able to afford it, and you weren’t speaking to anyone. I wondered if you would have spoken to me, if I were there.

I took the window seat on the flight. It was a small plane, specially chartered for us. Apparently the French government had paid as a gift to my father. Mum wanted to sit next to me on the flight, she didn’t really like to let me out of her sight in case you were around the corner, waiting to snatch me up, but I needed the space. I stretched out and laid down across the three seats, still recovering from the illness that had given me my freedom.

Halfway through the flight, my dad came and crouched down in front of where I was laying, so that his face filled my vision. He looked awkward as he talked to me about my life back home, about friends who’d sent messages and would be waiting to see me. “You can invite them all around, if you’d like. Have a kind of a …. Welcome home party?”

I wasn’t up to a party. While I was officially out of danger with my meningitis, it had still left me weary and tired. The doctors said to take it easy. And I didn’t really want a party anyway, what was I supposed to be celebrating? I closed my eyes. No one really had much of a clue about me, about what I was really thinking. It was like I existed in some kind of parallel universe, thinking and feeling things that no one understood. Except maybe you, but the jury’s still out on that one. “I think maybe I’d just like to have a take away in my room with Jehan.”

“Okay, son.”

It took hours to fly across all of those hundred of miles. I drifted off to sleep for some of the flight, but for the rest my mind was painfully aware.

The reporters were there the second we landed in Paris. I don’t know how they knew that we were going to be there, but they did. They crowded around us, closing us in, all of their voices shouting, “Zacharie, can we have a word?”

The spoke as if they knew me. Dad was trying to shield me from it all. He could see how panicked I was getting, but no one else could. Even the ordinary people at the airport, the passengers and shop workers; even they knew me and crowded around, snapped pictures of the debacle on their iPhones. In the end, Mum took off her jacket and put it over my head. Dad got really angry. The harder it was for us to get through, the more he swore at people and tried to push them away. It was exactly how he wouldn’t act in any normal situation. It was damaging to his image. It surprised me; he really did care for me then, he wanted me safe. He held me close to him as we passed a TV crew.

Something was horrifyingly clear to me. I was no longer an ordinary kid. My face sold papers; it made people tune into the news. But right then, with a coat over my head and my dad swearing at people, I felt like some sort of criminal. They were all hungry for details, they all wanted to know what happened between us in the desert, but I wouldn’t tell them.

You made me famous, Enjolras. You made the whole world fall in love with me, and I hated it. They all wanted answers I wasn’t ready to give.

None of us spoke on the car journey home. My dad held my hand and my mum held me close to her. My mind was racing, recalling the way you spoke; remembering the things you said you knew about my life that I didn’t. You’d said my parents didn't care about me, that they were only concerned about their image and money. You’d made it sound so convincing that I believed you.

Once we got inside the house, I flipped. I slammed the door and reached for the first thing I could find. It was mum’s favourite lamp, something given to her by her mother. I threw it against the wall. It shattered into a million little pieces. I picked up whatever was next to it – the ceramic bowl that we kept keys in— and hurled that too. Mum had to duck for cover. Her eyes were wide and shocked as she started to come towards me, but I grabbed the next nearest thing and held it out at her before she got to me. It was a vase we bought in Rome. I was ready to throw that too.

“Grantaire, what’s wrong?” Her eyes bore into mine, matching shades of blue glaring at each other.

I was crying and I hadn’t even realised it. Tears were running down my face, “tell me something, did you want to move away, next year, without me? Did you two talk about it? Were you going to send me to live with Aunt Lia?”

“What?!” Mum’s eyebrows shot up. She hadn’t been expecting that. “No, of course we weren’t! Who told you that?”

She moved towards me, but I held the vase between us like a weapon, ready to throw it at her face. She saw in my eyes not to come any closer. Every part of me was shaking, going as crazy as you were. And then I was sobbing, and I screamed. “I hate it, all of this! I even hate him, even him.”

And right then, I did. I hated you for everything. For making me feel so helpless everywhere I went, for making me lose control, for stealing me from my life. I blamed you for every emotion running through my head, for the horrible confusion. For the way I was doubting everything that I once knew to be true. I hated you for turning my life upside down then giving it back to me in hundreds of little shards. I really hated you for making me stand there with a vase in my hand, screaming at my mum.

But I hated you for something else too. Ever since the moment I woke up after you had left me, all I could think about was you. I wanted you in my home, with your arms around me, your face close to mine. I wanted everything we had, and I knew that I couldn’t have it. Shouldn’t even want it. That’s what I hated the most. The uncertainty of you. You kidnapped me, put my life in so much danger, caused all of this mess… but I loved you too. Or I thought I did, none of it made sense.

“It’s okay, Grantaire.” Mum whispered and took a cautious step towards me. “I understand. The people we… care about… aren’t always the right ones.”

“Don’t you tell me about things you don’t understand,” I snarled. I didn’t even recognise myself in that moment. “No more words!”

I still held the vase out between us, although I’m not sure why she didn’t just try and grab it off of me. I think she was just as scared as I was. She tried whispering that she loved me, but it just made me angrier. Nothing at all made sense. So I threw the vase, it went straight over her head and smashed against the wall, it’s shattered pieces collecting with those on the ground. 

“Grantaire?”

I turned around. Jehan was standing in the doorway, in front of my dad. He’d gone to fetch him from next door as soon as we got home. They both missed my explosion, just witnessed the aftermath. Jehan looked at me with wide eyes that threatened to spill over with tears. I was torn between running and hugging him, and running in the opposite direction. In the end, I did the latter. I bolted up the stairs and into my bedroom, then slammed the door behind myself.

I threw myself onto my bed and looked around. Everything was the same. My bed was still unmade, there was still a torn up college sign up sheet on my desk, and my bedroom wall was still covered in pictures. My parents hadn’t moved a thing. I was right back in my old life but and everything was the same, except for me.

“Grantaire?” The soft call of Jehan’s voice pulled me out of my revere. I was ashamed, because I had forgotten the soft undertone to his voice. Any time I had imagined it while I had been with you, I had remembered it so differently. It didn’t seem real that I was hearing it again. “I can go if you want me to, but I’d really like to come in and hug you.”

I laughed, for the first time since I left you, and Jehan came through the door. He looked cautious as he stepped into my room, unsure of how to act around me. It made me sad. The boy who was practically my brother didn’t even know how to approach me. I suppose he had just seen me throw a vase and scream at my own mother, I’m sure he was worried I’d throw something at him too. I smiled at him, and he raced over and threw himself on me. I hugged him back as tight as I could.

“I missed you so much.” Jehan breathed into my neck, and then I started crying all over again. And I couldn’t stop; the tears just came and didn’t want to stop. Jehan didn’t even look alarmed; he just stroked my hair and let me cry. He’s always been good at dealing with things like that. Eventually, he whispered, “do you want to talk about it?”

I didn’t. I didn’t want anyone to know what had happened out there. The desert was you and me, it had no place in my bedroom, surrounded by my books and my posters. I looked up at him and opened my mouth to tell him such, but instead I said, “I painted you and it was so perfect and you’ll never see it.”

Jehan looked alarmed at that, and cocked his head to the side. Whatever he had expected me to say, it wasn’t that. I hadn’t even expected that. “Excuse me?”

“He…” I wondered how much I could say without saying too much. Anything was too much, but I wanted to explain. If I explained then maybe you would seem like a little less of a monster to him. “He knew that I loved to paint so he bought me all kinds of paints and I remembered that you asked me to paint you so I did and it was the best thing I’ve ever done and it’s stuck out there in the desert.”

He smiled at me, that sad, understanding smile that is so Jehan. But I couldn’t think about you anymore, it was driving me crazy, and having him look at me like that wasn’t any better. I asked him what had happened since I left, and he huffed, and cocked his head to the side, “Well… not a whole lot really. Me and Courfeyrac broke up, then got back together, then broke up again, and then got back together… Feuilly got a job in a bakery, and then a weekend job making deliveries for a supermarket. Courfeyrac dropped out of college, so his parents kicked him out. I don’t think they were really serious about it cause they freaked when he walked down the stairs with a suitcase and then marched him back up to his room to unpack it. I think they just wanted to intimidate him into going back, which of course he hasn’t because it’s Courfeyrac.”

I smiled. Things had changed a whole lot since you stole me, but my friends were still the same. For the first time since I woke up in hospital, I was looking forward to seeing them all again.


	14. Chapter 14

It’s still over a month until the trail. It’s a priority case, but I guess these things just take time. I still get hounded by reporters and ordinary people when I leave the house, so I don’t really go anywhere all that much. I can’t stand to have people taking my picture whenever I leave my house. I sometimes wonder what goes through their heads when they scream questions at me. I thought about talking to a newspaper about how difficult it was just to be when I couldn’t do anything without a reporter following me, yelling things at me. I never did, maybe I will if they don’t get bored soon.

 

My emotions switch constantly. Some days I’m so happy that you’re in the same city as me, that you’re close to me. Some days that thought terrifies me. I have nightmares of you breaking out of prison and taking me back to the desert. No matter what I feel, I think of you in your cell every night. I dream of you constantly. Some dreams are good, and others… well I try not to think about those dreams too much. Some days my mind drifts back to the desert, and I think about all of the open space and I miss it. The city isn’t the same now that I’m back.

 

The police still come by and ask me questions. They say they’re trying to build up a strong case against you. Jehan comes over a lot too, sometimes he stays all night. Sometimes we talk about it, sometimes we don’t. He doesn’t push me too hard. Courfeyrac and Feuilly come over too, but not as often. After having no one to talk to but you for nearly two months, being around all my friends at once can be a little overwhelming.

 

It was actually Jehan’s idea that I write this. He’s the only one who doesn’t think of you as a monster. He doesn’t like you, of course not, but he doesn’t hate you either, not like everyone else does. He said it might help me understand why all of this happened to me. And I’m trying to, I really am. I would love to understand this, but I won’t be able to do that unless I write this to you. After all, you were out there with me; you’re the only one who knows what happened. And something did happen, didn’t it? Something powerful and strange. Something that I will never be able to forget, no matter how much I try. I’m not even sure that I want to forget.

 

Everyone thinks I’ve got Stockholm Syndrome. It scares Mum when I say something good about you, Courfeyrac won’t listen when I tell him that you’re not as bad as people think, and Dad turns away when I say that there’s more to you than what he reads in the paper. They don’t want to hear it. So I’ve stopped saying these things. They want me to tell them what they want to hear, and I can’t. I can’t tell them that you really are a monster, or that I don’t have any feelings for you other than hatred. I just can’t tell them that, no matter how much they want me to.

 

I wish I had amnesia so I could forget what you look like. I don’t want to remember your eyes, or your hair, or your smile. I wish I felt good about letting you go to jail for five to ten years, but there is no part of me that feels good about that. I wish I could believe everything that the papers write, just like my parents do, because it’s not as if I don’t understand where they’re coming from. I wanted you dead, too, at one point.

 

Because you stole me. But you saved my life too. You showed me a place so beautiful and different that I will remember it until the day I die. And I can’t forget you either. You’re stuck in my brain like you were meant to be there.

 

Sometime I wonder what the trial will be like. Will I be scared when I see you, or will I feel something else? Something that no one wants me to feel. I’m worried that I will, and I’m worried that I won’t. Nothing makes sense. You’ll be in handcuffs. You won’t be able to touch me. Will your eyes plead, or will they stare at me with anger? You could have gotten away, but I didn’t want to be alone on the plane. How have they treated you, in there? Have your nightmares returned? One thing I know for certain; when we next meet, I will be looking at you with the whole legal system between us and nothing will be the same.

 

I thought that by this point in the letter, I’d understand it all. That I’d have some big revelation about why this all happened, why you came into my life, why you chose me. But I haven’t. Sometimes I think you’re still just as messed up as that first day when I met you when I was ten. Sometimes I think about your plan of living out there, and I think it might have worked. But mainly, I don’t know what to think. I still don’t understand you. I never will.

 

The police are coming by later. They want to talk about what I’ll say when I get up in the witness box. And I guess I should think about that, I’m just not sure what I’m going to say. That day in court could have two different endings, but it will start the same way.

 

The trial will be on a Monday morning, just before ten. I’m scared. The media will descend on us as soon as we leave the front door. We will have to push through them and try our best to ignore them. Mum will hold my hand so tightly that her nails will dig into my skin. Dad will probably swear at the reporters again. Jehan will be there too, probably holding my other hand. I need them to keep me grounded. I might run away if they let go.

 

We’ll step into the court house and everything will be quieter. Everyone will stare, even those who would usually think themselves too polite. The prosecution lawyer will ask me about my statement, and then everyone will be whisked into the main courtroom and I’ll be left alone to wait. Then it’ll be my turn to give my evidence. Everything will be tense. One of those court artists will be drawing my face. But I won’t be looking at them; I’ll only be looking at one person. You.

 

You’ll be sitting in the dock, and your eyes will be staring back at me. You’ll need me, the same way mum needed me when I was still in the hospital. So I’ll make my decision, and then I’ll turn my face away from you.

 

It will start just as it should. They will ask my name, my age, my address. Then it will get interesting. They’ll ask me how I know you. In the first instance, I’ll tell them exactly what they want to hear. I’ll tell them how you followed me, how you stalked me from such an early age, how your parents rejected you so you had these deluded thoughts about the desert and me being your only escape. The lawyer will ask me about the day by the Seine, and I’ll tell him that you drugged me and stole me. I’ll tell them that you shoved me in the boot of your car and held me against my will. I’ll tell them about the long, lonely nights in your house and about being locked in the bathroom and trying to kill myself. How I waited for you to kill me. I’ll tell them about your anger bursts and your lies and I will tell them how you grabbed me so hard sometimes that you made my eyes water and my skin turn red.

 

And I won’t even look at you throughout that testimony. I’ll just say what they want to hear.

 

“He’s a monster.” I’ll say. “He kidnapped me.”

 

And the judge will bash the little hammer and hand out a sentence of ten or so years, and everything will finally be over.

 

But there is another way.

 

I could tell the judge about the day we met in the part, when I was ten and you were almost eighteen. I could tell them about how we became friends; how you talked to me and looked after me and the time you saved me from Thierry.

 

The prosecution lawyer will try to interrupt of course. His face will be angry and surprised, and he’ll try to say that my testimony is unreliable, that I have Stockholm Syndrome. But I’ll be composed, calm, able to explain clearly how I’m not. I’ve done my research, I know exactly what I need to say to be convincing.

 

The judge will believe me, and let me go on talking. Then I’ll talk about how we fell in love, not in the desert, but years before in Paris. The courtroom will be in frenzy; Mum will probably stand up and call for me to tell the truth. It will be hard to look at her because this will hurt her so much, so I’ll look at you when I say that I wanted to run away with you. Your eyes will be flaming and passionate. I’ll tell them that you knew the perfect place for us to run and hide, a place far away where no one would be able to find us. I’ll tell them that I agreed.

 

I can’t save you like that, Enjolras. I wish I could. I want to, but I can’t. I’m crying as I type this part. What you did to me wasn’t this wonderful thing, like you think it was. You ripped me away from everything… Away from my parents, my friends, my life. You took me and expected me to love you. And I did, and that’s what makes this thing so hard. Perhaps if we’d met as ordinary people, things would have been different. Maybe I would have agreed to run away with you for a while. Perhaps I could have loved you so much. You were so different and I could have loved you.

 

So when I get to court, I’m going to tell the truth. My truth, not what they want to hear, and not what you want to hear. I’ll say that you kidnapped me, because you did. I’ll tell them that you put something in my coke as we sat by the Seine. I’ll tell them that your mood swings scared me. I won’t pretend that you aren’t evil, because you can be.

 

But I won’t let them think that’s all you are. I’ll tell them about your other side too. I’ll tell them about how I tried to run away and you save my life, how you could be tender. I’ll tell them that you chose prison and let me live. Because you did, didn’t you? When you stayed with me on that plane, you did it knowing that you wouldn’t get away again. And I’m so grateful, because I gave my life up for you too, but I didn’t have the choice that you did. You chose to give up your freedom, but I never did. You stole that choice from me.

 

The judge will sentence you. There’s nothing that I can do to stop that, but maybe the things I say about you will help in some way. Maybe he won’t sentence you for quite so long.

 

And hopefully, this letter will help you. Maybe it can help you be that person that I saw when we slept under the stars, the one who gave himself up to save my life. You can choose to be that person. I can’t save you, but I can tell you what I feel. It’s all I have for you. One day they’ll let you out of that cell, and you’ll go back to the desert without me. And this time, you’ll be the person that I loved.

 

I have to go now. It’s going on 5am, and the sun is starting to rise. In just a few moments, I will print out this letter and turn my computer off, and my letter will be finished. I don’t want to stop writing to you, but both of us need me to.

 

Goodbye Enjolras,

 

Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a mini one shot of the trial in third person POV if anyone is interesting in reading that! Lemme know!

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning is very strongly based upon the book Stolen, but as we get further into the story it takes a different turn to the one in the book. 
> 
> Enjolras might be a little OOC, but I wanted him to be the kidnapper sooo....
> 
> Please leave comments to let me know what you think :)


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